One Shiny Guinea
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: Set AU post Season 4 finale. There's a break-in at Jules house. Each chapter is an alternative look at how the break-in could've happened based on who was present. Four-shot. Sam/Jules.
1. Five Fingertips

_A/N: Hey Guys, new story. Basically a lighter note at what could potentially be a dark situation. It's only going to have three chapters. None of the chapters are connecting. Rather they're stand alone. Each uses the same general plot and devices/some of the same characters/settings/you get it by now/one more for fun. Kinda like Groundhog Day, but the characters are not aware of the switches that occur. So like I said. Chapters are stand alone, but put into the same story for convenience purposes.  
Rated M for situations which occur in later chapters, but this one is clean of everything except my swears. Surprise. _

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
**

One Shiny Guinea

Chapter 1

Five Fingertips

The front door slams sticky in the late July humidity. Bulldozing the early arena of sleep she finally managed to enter. A headache, the worst she's ever had without a night of binging and boozing preceding it. Curls and nestles by the hearth in her left temple like a domesticated animal. Claws at the carpet, rips at the floorboards and pisses on the hardwood.

Twin booms. Boom boom. Door bouncing off the wall downstairs and then lodging in the frame, uneven in its coats of paint which expand in musty weather. Told him to be quiet. Begged him to be quiet. Sent him a text telling him on her day off she has King Kong climbing the interior skyscrapers of her brain and to kindly shut the hell up when he comes home because she's taken enough pills to bring down a bull elephant.

But no, boom boom and she's awake. Because, despite her text having everything save for an emoticon of two clasping hands, he's rampaging through their living room not unlike the bull elephant she's trying to tranquilize. Feels her patience slowly draining, leaking out of water clogged ears, dry nostrils, bloodshot eyes, bottom sides of fingernails. Imagines her rage is the thermometer hanging outside on the porch. Probably smashed on the ground with his destruction. Mercury pearls rolling every which way, beading down cranky porch steps.

Attempts to soothe with a deep inhalation even though King Kong is rocking those tom toms with a sweet jungle beat. Everyone else on Team One has the day off, but Sam had to go in for—so maybe he was too wiped to check his messages. She should just be glad he got home safe and—

Triplet bangs interrupted by a crash. Bang, bang, crash, bang.

"Okay." Rips the thin sheet off her legs and clear off the bed from where the edges tucked into perfect hospital corners. Floats harmlessly across the footboard, half slithering onto the floor. Slaps semi-sweaty feet to the tacky hardwood. Even if Sam's exhausted from his day of non-mobility, it's still no reason for him to zombie around the living room.

Slaps occur in succession, in a melodic beat with the bangs. Slap, slap, bang. Slap, slap, bang. The stairs increase the frequency of foot exploitation. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, bang. Follows the curve of the banister to the landing. Middle and forefinger kneading her temple like bakery fresh dough.

"Sam, seriously don't you check your messages?" Croaks it out as her eye stretches and shrinks with flexing digits. "Shut the hell up, I've already got the Santa Claus Parade in my fucking skull. You smashing around like a drunk doesn't—"

Fingers solidify parallel to her face. Muscles and bone lock, all rivets and soldered joints. Because the man in her front room isn't Sam.

* * *

"What did he look like?"

"He was about five foot ten." Cotton flowers graze her lower lip. Words spill onto one of the kitsch kitchen towels. "Maybe six feet tall at the most. Medium build. Red hair. No facial hair. No tattoos. No scars."

"Uh huh." The cop, a burly man in his early fifties has a head that melts directly into his thick chest. Nods at her once with his entire torso. The brim of his hat shadows his tiny far set eyes, and the bridge of his wide, flattened nose. "Anything else that might help us distinguish him from a crowd?"

"Pretty sure I broke his nose." Compresses the balled floral towel to her leaking nostril. Syrupy nosebleed drenching all the good linens. Every time she removes it for a second, it's like the tap on a maple tree. "And I might have kicked one of his balls back into his stomach cavity by the way he was limping."

"All right." Cop seems less impressed with the second piece of information. Sympathy for the attacker through brotherly obligations and phantom limb contractions. "I'll contact the hospitals to tell them to be on the lookout for him."

"Great." Couldn't have been the left side. Kong and the elephant were in the left side. Now they're all over. She's going to need a double dose of whatever to get through this drum symphony. Basses, tom toms, bongos and snares. Rough and steady beats bounding ceaseless behind her eyes.

Cop ignores her sarcasm. Toddles away from where she sits on her couch accompanied by a kitchen towel already bloodied to her homemade version of a Rorschach test. Stretches his plump, cloven legs to step over where the suspect dropped his gun. Dropped it and ran when she sent at least one of his boys packing home. Hovers by the wall littered with pictures of her and Sam. "I called EMS for you too, Ma'am. They're on route."

Twists on the couch, body bouncing off the confining, full pillows. Blood tickles and trickles from her nostril. A bit swerves to the edge of her upper lip. "First off it's not Ma'am. It's Officer. I'm a cop, just like you. And I don't need an EMS. I'm fine. It's just a little nosebleed."

"Well if you're a cop, than you know it's protocol to call in EMS." Gains sass, hands almost on his hips buried beneath layers of fat. Movement only making him appear as a circular figurine.

"And I'm telling you I'm fine." Realizes the absurdity of the statement as she thrusts the ball of crusting maroon covered pansies and watering cans back into her nasal cavity.

"And I'm telling you, someone injures you, I gotta call in EMS. Plus there's blood, Officer." Stresses the title to piss her off a little bit more.

Left eyelid shimmies, twitches right in the center. He must catch it as he rounds her overturned coffee table because he clears his throat, baritone voice taking a gentler tone. Points a pen to her front door where his partner has been for the last fifteen minutes just staring with an open maw. Like chickens that drown from staring up into downpours. "The frame on your front door is broken, so you'll have to stay somewhere else for a few days until you get someone to fix it."

"Fine."

"Do you have anyone you want to call, or want me to call?"

"No."

"Not this fine young man in these pictures?"

"No."

"Looks pretty serious between you two. You don't think he'd want to know about—"

"Julianna?"

"Oh thank God."

Doesn't really care who it is because they know her name. Won't call her 'Ma'am' or 'Officer' in a condescending tone like she was asking to get robbed and then did something wrong by defending herself when things turned physical. Maybe they'll understand that her head is actually a stewpot of extreme agony, might talk soft and soothingly or have some sort of short term solution besides swallowing buckets of pills. Maybe they'll let her go pee, because she really has to.

"Who are you?" Huffing, round cop bounces on his feet and checks out the new guy as he enters her house. Nostalgia of being an on beat cop, of meeting people after something bad happened and spending the rest of the shift trying to make it up to them.

"EMS." Steve yanks at the emblem on his shirt. Her house is the hottest downtown club and only first responders with the right I.D. get let in. The cop slims his prickled eyes and nods to her with his whole body. She rolls her eyes, well at least one.

"My shift ended but I heard your address go in over the radio, I told them I had to take it." He kneels at her feet like some kind of domesticated animal. Not clawing the carpet or ripping the floorboards because some guy already did that. Opens his tackle box of medical goodness, layers of everything shiny and ready. "What happened, Jules?"

She shrugs, a little sentimental at an old friend caring so much for her. Rises on his knees and sneaks his fingers into her hand clumping around a dyed kitchen towel. Guides it away from her face carefully. His eyes flinch, pupils jostling a little in reaction to her injuries, almost a full facial expression, but he kills it for her sake.

"There was a guy in my living room. He got physical; hit me with the butt of his gun. I punched him in the nose, a—" Forefinger and thumb float tipsy over her eye, her cheekbone, her nose. The current laps at her skin with the idea of a touch. Air is an elephant rampaging on her face. "I punched him a few times, I think. I kicked him too."

"Why didn't you call the police?" The pad of his forefinger caresses the lower lid of her eye, a downy feather swaying in the non breeze of a stalled summer day. But her skin is like thin ice, frail with leagues of pressuring water beneath. She inhales, tries not to be noticeable, but it is. It's loud, it's deep, it shakes.

"I am the police."And it would be so much more intimidating if a small dribble of blood didn't drizzle out of her nose like a burp of ketchup.

His smile is warm, careful just like his hands, each individual finger. Slips to envelop the lower half of her palm, support and structure it back to her nose. "Why did you go downstairs?"

"I'm a cop, Steve." Sounds nasally, her voice sifting through a cold. Or the voice of a clown at a birthday party.

"I know you're a cop." Sighs, lips almost a perfectly straight line but carry the curved corners of his permanent grin. His brows slant, oppose the curve. Are more pronounced than the curve. Worry always is. "Why not just call 9-1-1 and wait? You were off duty right? Doesn't that make you a civilian?"

Squints her good eye at him. Lips pull up into the grimace she almost always wears because it was the emotion she was reared on. "You really bringing up off duty heroics right now?"

The events of a certain day concentrate themselves into a brief pause. Ice cream and spring dresses. Indian food and gun shots. Chemicals in a mosque. A promise not to stop singing, she so did. Steve chuckles once, the verbal equivalent of the awkward back of the neck rub.

"No, I guess I'm not." Single fingertip returns to the uncharted expedition of her eye. Her cheekbone sunken like a shipwreck or undiscovered underwater volcano. Knows exactly how much pressure to exert, how much is too much, how much will make her head explode within scuba gear.

"I thought it was Sam." Doesn't want to alienate, because they're all in unstable lines of work. Hell, their jobs are the nitroglycerine of all jobs. They all have follies, follow fumbles, create their own mistakes. None of them should be punished for it. "I thought he was tired from his class and was stumbling around downstairs. For a guy whose job and life depend on his stealthiness at home he's an ox."

Chuckles again, but this time it's viable. Truthful and meaningful. Glimmers in his eyes, and shudders in the neighboring laughing lines. Stoops to the side, reappears with a small square of snowy gauze. "Sam's taking a class?"

"There's going to be a Team Leader position opening up in a month." Gauze licks and adheres to her cheek. There must be a cut from the jagged metal molars on the gun. Can't feel it, that whole quadrant of her face. Hurts on an equal level simmering to numbness. "He has to do twenty-four hours of in-class assessment to make sure he has the proper authoritative training."

"Sounds exciting."

"Sounds boring as hell."

Results in the same sincere chuckle, the same bright grin. With his fore and middle fingers under her chin, tips her head up. Again lowers her hand from her nose, fingers scoping out her palm. Purging her of the second bloodbathed kitchen towel. Fingers linger, soft in her palm for a few seconds. Scurry away as he consciously blinks and clears his throat. "What did Sam say?"

"When?"

Forefinger courses the side of her nose, compacts her right nostril. Probably seeing if there's any sap left. "When you call—" undulates his spine forward, straightens his hunched shoulders. He's taller than her on his knees. She has couch legs and cushions and he's still taller than her. "Jules, you didn't call him?"

"He has an hour left in his class. He would've left and had to repeat one for leaving early, which means he wouldn't be done in time for the promotion." It's not the reason. It's a practical reason, but not the reason why she didn't call him. He would've overreacted. To everything. The cruiser and ambulance on the street. The broken door frame. The marauded living room. The spar. The blood on the towels. Her black eye. Everything. And he would've gotten angry about everything. "It's not worth it. I'm fine."

"I don't know Jules." Taps her right temple twice. Drums follow the syncopated beat. Slow for a minute from a frenzied garbled mess of noise to just above roaring twenties jigs. "You've got one hell of a shiner."

"Worse than that time I beat up Whitney P. in Grade 11 Biology?"

"I'd say so; this guy had some power behind his swing."

"So did Whitney. She wasn't a tiny girl, Steve."

Doesn't really listen because he's peeling the gauze away from her cheek. The gauze which masked and veiled over her skin and its crevices in perfection. It flops, flaccid and sneezed red. Like a pulse of crimson dust burst into the center. "You need to go to the hospital. The cut on your cheek needs stitching and—"

"I'm not going to the hospital for a cut on my cheek." However, she accepts the second piece of gauze he offers. Her fingers aren't so nimble, so dept and flawlessly artistic as his. They amble about on her cheek in an attempt to find the fabled cut.

He directs her left hand bungling over her face. Arm like a limp, less useful bulletproof vest. A human seatbelt. "You can ride in the front seat and the sirens will be—"

Dry throat squeezes out a cackle as her fingers chance leaving the gauze on its own. It stays pasted in place. "I'm definitely not going to the hospital in an ambulance for a cut on my cheek."

"What about your wrist?" Nods to the arm ensconced in her pajama bottomed lap. The pink heart pattern crumpled in wrinkles and flowing around her arm. Fist still clenched, knuckles five craggy hills, just like it was when he was here.

"It's fine."

"Let me see it." Hand supine in want with the absence of the grabby hyperextension of fingers. His face expectant as he relaxes back on his heels.

Didn't hurt hitting him. Punching him. Feeling the crack of cartilage under middle and ring fingers with the second swing. The first stunned. The second hurt. The kick to his boys made him flush, sweat, droop and waddle out of the house as fast as he could. It wasn't the physical fighting, it was before. The pinwheels of black and blue around the actual angles and arteries of her wrist. Before when—"No."

The constant slant of his brows turn inward. One heightens and the other slumbers straight under in confusion. Teeters forward on his knees, closer to her, shadow creeping into her lap and over her wrist. Supine hand steers forward again, flat like a waiter's serving tray. "Jules, if he hurt you you need—"

"No." Nudges his hand away with her own. Voice collected and her right wrist unconscious deadweight in her lap. Might get pin and needles when she moves it. "It's fine."

But he keeps her eyes. Not harshly, not with interrogation and gossip flocking conclusions. Not even with stark curiosity. Just concern. For a cut cheek. For a bruised wrist. "What did—"

"Can I help you, Sir?" Chunky cop rests idle in the front doorway like a tractor trailer in a field of wooden slivers. Might actually be wearing the doorframe.

"I live— Where's my girlfriend? Is she okay? What hap—"

Hears Sam's voice in its panicked cadence which many, most, would confuse for fury. He's not angry, not in the least. He's terrified, doesn't know what's going on, which translates to passion interpreted as rage. This is how the anger she predicted begins. But for some odd reason she finds solace in him right now. Thought his anger, panic, concern would just be more issues for her to deal with, but he asked for her. Lives here even though he still has his apartment.

The cop slaps his back with a laugh because he 'recognizes' Sam from the pictures. Tells him the 'Missus' is on the couch getting EMS attention and she'll explain everything. Also adds that he needs to find another place to stay for a few days while the door frame gets fixed. Then elbows Sam in the ribs with a wide, suggestive grin and what she only supposes are waggling eyebrows. At the same time Steve shuffles back an inch or two from her.

Sam's fakes out the cop, manages to actually enter their house. Steve scuttles at her feet, packing up his tackle box of medical goodies sans a lollipop and a bathroom break. Shifts and stands from the ground with a neutral to negative smile because he can sense what's coming as much as she knows. And she knows it must hurt him.

Watches the shades of emotion flicker off Sam's face like a dancing candle flame. The panic and fear evident when he first steps by the house bouncer. The immediate slackness when he recognizes her, and relief that she's intact, breathing, healthy and generally unharmed. Then the restringing of cords and tightening of screws because the right side of her face is not only directly aiming at him, but showcased by the living room pot lights.

"Jesus," mutters it. Not a curse, more so the remaining restraints on his composure cooling off his system, steam whistling from a pipe. Charges at her, that old ox she always hears downstairs finally in motion. Usually when he knows she's watching, he practices perfectly form fitting steps interpretive to her soul.

His hip and thigh collide with the firm couch back. Quake her body with impact. Hand contains her chin, fingers branching over the left side of her face. He doesn't examine her first. Like the cop did with an aggravated huff because now EMS had to be called. Like Steve did with concern because she's Jules, rough and tumble high school Jules who should know better than to be getting into scuffles in her living room.

Kisses her on the lips. Exhales all his worries and fears into her mouth, diving over her teeth, tumbling with her tongue. Plants a sloppy kiss on her forehead, her cheek. Lips smack against her skin like the light beat of butterfly wings.

"Sam." Hikes a shoulder to break contact. To garner his attention towards Steve, who reenacts the awkward back of the neck rub his chuckle embodies so well.

Sam either continues to ignore him, or is too focused on her to care. His brows knit dangerously low, hand cushioning her jaw, turning her face so he can inspect the damage. Dangerous eyes flash red waves in blue. Inherent violence in vendetta. "What the hell happened?"

"It's nothing." His thumb hooks in the cleft below her lower lip. Though his eyebrows angle in nothing but anger, she senses what he doesn't outwardly portray. The guilt, the fear, the brokenness at witnessing her in such a state, though he's seen her in much worse.

"This isn't nothing." Fingers droop from the back of the couch. Anger losing its momentum as his other emotions start to stain his decisions, his perceptions. She scoops them up in her left hand. "You're not nothing. Someone hurt you. That's something. A big something."

"There was a guy in the living room and things got phy—"

Rips his hand away. Sneakers squeaking over their hardwood floors like a kindergarten class in a gym. "Wait what? What?"

Not really sure why he wants her to repeat the sentence. If there's a certain amount of unbelievability to what she's stating, or if there's something in there that's specifically making him pissed because he's definitely re-escalated. Or if he's just pissed no one else is as angry as him about what happened. "There was a guy in the living room?"

Hands fidget. To his hips, across his chest, to his chin. "Where is he? Did they catch him? I don't even care. I'm going to kick his ass even if he's cuffed."

"Sam, I can take care of myse—"

"No. No." Points at her, eyebrows fighting to keep their dominant angles. Muscles beneath trembling with fatigue. But his voice is already dulcet at revisiting her injuries, lowers more than one octave and becomes sincere. "That's at work. This is different. You weren't at work. You weren't in uniform. You were in our house. You were just a woman to him. You're not to me Jules. You're not and this shit needs to stop."

Wobbles forward, knees sinking between the deep dips connecting the pillows. Feet hook over the front of the couch, toes burying under the cushion. Presses herself into the back of the couch, left hand resting on the edge as her right swings lifeless. "I'm still here."

"Yeah." Sam nods once, voice slowly scattering like wisps of smoke against a night sky. Trudges a large step, and places a gentle kiss on her forehead. Hand ghosting over the injured side of her face until it cradles the back of her head. "Yeah."

"I'm going to—" Steve, skin a blushing shade of pink, points to their fragmented front door, his tackle box in tow.

"Steve." Lips pluck from her forehead; thumb gives one reassuring brush before the embrace breaks. Sam circles the couch, his hand held out. "I'm sorry for—"

Steve shakes his head in automatic disagreement at any apology. Shoves the red box underneath his opposite arm and shakes Sam's hand. It's an honest exchange, Sam pats Steve's arm a few times. Steve grins genuinely. "No. No, it's understandable."

"Thank you, for helping her."

"I have a black eye, not the black plague."

"Actually she needs to go to the hospital."

"What? Why?" Newly forged friendship with Steve is forgotten. Bounds back over to her. Busy fingers trail over her face again because apparently he missed something during the first inspection. "You need a hospital?"

"I don't need a hospital"

"Jules, if you need stitches, you need to go to the hospital."

Narrows her good eye at Steve. Sam's fingers prod the peripherals of her face. When she slants her head away, he tilts it back. "It's a cut in my cheek, I'll live."

"What are you going to do? Pull it together with the duct tape from the kitchen?" He lifts one of the blood soaked towels from earlier. Doesn't unravel from drying in a cluster of reds and browns over petunias. "We're going to the hospital."

* * *

"What's wrong with your wrist?" Legs dangle off the side of a gurney as time jogs by in the faceless moonlight and nosedives off a bluff into the soft swashing waves below. Garish colored curtain in hues of purple, yellow, brown and green only mixed in nightmares shades them from fellow emergency room frequenters. People who play medical bingo with their internal organs and Russian roulette with their immune systems.

Wrist still ever a wrist. A pale switch cut from her favorite tree and placed in the flow of her pink heart bottoms. Limp and dead as ever. Eternal fist still clenching at a past moment. A moment, like Steve when he relived getting shot for valor. The convoluted idea of 'doing the right thing'. She keeps reliving the moment where that man in her front room grabbed her wrist. Pads and nails imprinted with unknown dirt and past. When he—

"Nothing."

Sam's leaning against the gurney, carries just a few inches more height than her. Carries much more burden from the whole night than her even though he wasn't present. Thinks the burden in grand chests and matching luggage tied to his back like a bull elephant is the direct result of him not being there.

Left cheek nuzzles against his shoulder, the jagged bone, the smooth hardness of the muscle under his t-shirt. The same one he came home in. Hasn't even had a chance to change. To eat. She still has to pee. His left hand holds hers, thumb circles indolently along the ridges of her knuckles, the cricks of her joints, the verticals of each of her fingers.

"You haven't moved it since I've seen you. Not when we were packing things for my place. Not in the car. Not in the waiting room." Each sentence followed by a reassuring brush of her hair. His right hand swims through her hair. Just like how they watch cheesy movies together. How they read the morning paper together. How they fall asleep together. Fingers so careful not to drop to damaged territory. Can feel them shrink, bones breaking back into his palm when they pace near her ear.

"It's fine."

Expects his now programmed response of 'none of this is fine'. Instead his hand slows, bangs billow free from his fingers, tickle her forehead in strands. "Can I see it?"

Without forethought she answers, "Yeah."

Wrist creaks and cracks, a door seldom opened. Bangs and booms. A door broken into. Drops his hand from her hair, burrows it near the jut of her hip. Left hand holds her right, like the beginning of an unforgettable ceremony sans any piece of jewelry or religious icon. Heats up her immobile skin. Blue from hypothermia. Blue and black from a bruise alchemized into fire frozen and tattooed onto the jutting bones of her wrist.

Docks capsized palm under hers. Her hand dwarves in comparison. His consumes in a completely desired, positive, loving way. Ripples his fingers, pinkie to thumb. Brows jump at her once. A challenge, an opportunity, a plea. She ripples hers back. Fingers playing against his like piano keys she knows the tune to.

Hand half turns. Thumb up in the air wiggling playfully. Copies the wide fingered stance. Balls of her hand stamped into his. Fingers find the slots between hers and entwine. A ball of flesh, muscles, bones and blood. Two hands, ten fingers, two wrists, only one bruised and throbbing.

"Your wrist is fine." Manipulates the ball so her hand lies on top, exposed but treated with nothing but respect. Fingers dainty, wrist supported as his lips anchor to her hand. Flex in a gentle kiss. Warm breath cementing it into place for eternity. "So what's wrong with your wrist?"

Would reply 'nothing', but what's the use? They know each other too well. Too well for her to lie about this, because it's going to continue to bother her until he figures out what's wrong. After being together this long, maybe it's time for her to actually share something with him before it becomes another bubble boiling away in her acidic personality.

"The guy. I told the guy to get out of the house. He aimed the gun at me, and then grabbed my wrist." Wrist sleeps in the phantom plunge where their thighs meet, the trompe-l'oeil where his thigh and her thigh could belong to a third person. His thighs and her thighs could come together and create a third person. His thumb courses over the violet veins which bifurcate smaller until they fully disappear.

Feels her eyebrows connect in a mass of muscles, quivering from overuse. From the rampant confusion. Feels the light dab of Sam's thumb pad on her tender skin. Feels the burning imprint of five fingertips like heated metal, belonging to someone whose name she still doesn't know. "He had this look on his face. This smirk. This evil smirk and he started pulling me towards the couch. I knew what he wanted. What he was going to do and that's when I hit him and he hit me."

Hand at her hip collects her body as she starts to sag to the right. Away from him and towards her injuries. Into the spiraling pit of 'what ifs'. Hesitates at his first beckon, pushes against his call. But the second tug, it's realistic, not soft, not caressing. Five real fingers not searing metal, powering through pink pajamas.

Realistic. Reality. Sitting on a gurney for thirty minutes beside her boyfriend who hasn't eaten since noon. Stomach growls when she nestles her head against his chest. His hand playing on the rise and fall of her ribs. "I'm not angry because you fought back, Jules. I'll never be angry because you fought back. I'm not angry at you at all."

Is so careful. So gentle when he rests his head on the crown of hers only for a second. Inhales deeply. Drops a lingering kiss in the wild tangles of hair stampeding. "I'm angry because people do this. Because this guy broke in. Because he hurt you even if you did kick his ass. Because I wasn't there"

"It's not your fault, Sam. It's the one day a week you had—"

"You think I give a shit about that class? About getting a promotion? About the job? About the house? They're all second when it comes to you. Everything is second, and I think I make the right choices and then I see—" Lips peck, barely peck, might just kiss the air above the swollen mass sprouting from her eye. "I see this and I think everything, except you, is all wrong."

"Hey." Hands release the side of her face; leave it cold and prone to the harsh jabs from the emergency room's central air. Keeps his eyes on the curtain of lurid colors. The kind found in an inward tumble when her mind gallops wildly over forking paths. His lips pale from force. Jaw muscles twitch in rough corners as pupils shrink and flex.

"Hey." Her palm fits perfectly under his chin; skin already bristled with a fine layer of fresh hair. "This isn't our fault Sam. You're not making bad decisions. If you were, I wouldn't stop telling you. I'm so proud of you. So proud."

"I'm the one who's proud. I know you can protect yourself, I just—I have a hard time remembering it sometimes." Hand devours hers, a disappearing act leaving her attended and comforted. Thighs rendezvous, every inch of them touching through cotton and denim.

"I know." Head returns to his shoulder, cheek finding the niche between the protruding bone and stiff muscle. Fingers strum through her hair, attempting to corral wild strands. "Sometimes it's easier to protect myself when I know you've got my back."

* * *

"Here." Thick legs obscure her vision of the TV, the highlights of tonight's hockey game Sam missed from spending eight hours in class and almost three in an emergency room so she could get eight stitches on the arc of her cheekbone.

Offered to clean up after their takeout burritos, just two plates, a few scraps of garbage and an empty beer bottle. Of course she can't drink against the doses of pain pills the doctor prescribed after Sam came on a bit too strong. Could easily make the short trek from couch to kitchen while he caught up on his scores, but the idea gave him the vapors. Settled her back down with a hand on her shoulder and told her to just relax.

A baggie full of ice cubes crackles into her expectant palm. Temperature only dulled a bit by a thin layer of plastic. Flexes her hand, tumbling it so she's holding it up by the zipped part. Sam steps in front of her, between the leather couch and the table, flopping back down.

She stares at him a moment, ice tearing in the baggie and numbing the muscles in her hand. His head leans back over the top of the cushions. Arms spreading at both sides like someone just dropped him there. Completely boneless like a beanbag. Quells the urge to lean over, undo his fly and shove the ice in.

"It's for your eye." Peeks at her from behind heavy lids, head slightly turning towards her.

"I don't need it."

"Just try it for a few minutes. Your eye is really swollen."

"I'm not supposed to get the stitches wet for at least twenty-four hours." Sets the baggie onto a coaster. Ice piles and slides off each other, perspires in the equally chilly central air of Sam's abandoned apartment. "It's fine."

He lurches forward, inflamed by some secret heat. His innate worry for her which keeps flaring up like matches being dropped into boxes of fireworks. Calm, then suddenly popping. Full of color, exuberance, passion. Suddenly everything because he remembers what happened. "Jules, your eye's going to—"

"Okay. Okay." Hand on the back of his neck, rough and coarse. The muscles and tendons tight and knotted like tree bark. Snatches the corner of the bag from the table and cautiously brings it to the eye she can barely see out of. A pinhole with the universe closing in around it.

Ice slaps bruised skin. Agitated, furious skin. Only proves to provoke more pain. Prods sensitive points. Creates fireworks behind her own eyes. Distorted chains of colors in ocean mosaics. Baggie clatters into the hollow between her crossed legs, ice clatters like a tossed pair of dice.

"That didn't feel good at all."

"Did you take your pills?"

Told her to take them while he cleaned. They should knock her right out. Should dissipate the pain in her swollen eye, her sewn cheek, her booming head, her empty nose with the easy flicking of a magic wand. But she can't take them. Can't be in a state of complete complacency after what happened.

"Jules." Body scoots next to hers. Hand scoops the baggie from in her lap, from between pink heart-patterned thighs. Arm hooks around her waist and she sighs, relaxes because he's still there. Outside of her right eye's new margins, but he's still there.

Hears the rattle of the bottle, six pills within. Enough for the three doses Sam scared out of the doctor. Drops two saucer-shaped white pills into her palm and balances her water bottle left over from dinner on her knee. "You should take them. They'll help you."

"I can't." Her hand knocks his. Wants to return the pills, but his closes. Retreats. "What if—"

"I'll be here." A whisper, an intense whisper. Like his voice was sieved until only the most pivotal parts remained. Shadows his chin to her shoulder, speaks it to her, floats it to her ear. Her right ear, her harassed side. Hands plant on her hips, palms warm, familiar and comforting. His nose brushes the side of her neck and when he speaks. The words solidify in his breathes. "I'm going to be here tonight and for a long time afterwards, Jules."

Knows. Just knows. About her wrist. About her having to pee and holding her place on the gurney while she wandered pajama clad through the emergency room. About her headache, sure she texted him almost twelve hours ago, but he kept the volume on the TV low, the lights to a minimum, keeps kissing her temple. About why she doesn't want to be incapacitated.

She knows. Knows he won't let a single thing happen to her while he's there. In the room, the building, the GTA, Canada. Probably wanted to leave class for her headache. Knows the guilt he feels and shouldn't is colossal.

She has a hard time trusting people, opening up to them. Sure, she trusts the Team. She has to; her life depends on it almost every day. But off duty, she doesn't trust most of them, not with the smallest of her intimate details. But Sam—stares at the two pills in her hand, knowing she could take them, finally sleep from the parade of subwoofers in her head. Stares at him, blue eyes and the slightest smile and trusts him.

Pills go down smooth with the water. Two gulps. They don't even get stuck over the hesitant bump in her throat. Sam coaxes with open arms, and they lay the length of the couch. Curling on her side, the uninjured portion of her face is padded by his t-shirt over his chest. Her whole body fluctuates with his over exaggerated breathes, something he does on purpose just to make her bounce. One of his arms snakes over her back and hip to slumber on her angled thigh. The other holds the baggie of ice to her exposed eye with a tolerable degree of pressure and the perfect positioning.

The cold temperature soothes the ache behind her eye, the straining muscles, and after a few minutes, two fingers break from the bag and massage the skin softly at her temple. In her head the rampaging elephant is on its side, trunk extended trumpeting for air. A very disinterested Kong slaps lazily at the drumset before him.

Wakens to a darkened room and a warm patch of leather underneath her. The blinds filter in distorted city light from downtown giving the room an ethereal haze along the wall. She leans up, one hand supporting her body, the other absently swatting her eye. Dynamite into a volcano as fireworks re-explode. Structuring arm shakes from the pain.

"Hey, you shouldn't be up." Another whisper hidden in the friction of his feet against hardwood floors and the creaking of their boards. Outline a charcoal gray against the pitch black that consumes the rest of the room. Neon glow from the windows doesn't permeate from beyond the TV.

"What?—What's?"

Tugs her exploring hand away from her eye as he sits in the spot radiating heat. Starting to remember some stuff now. A hospital. Some stitches. A hockey game. Where the hell are they? "You were getting cold, so I got a blanket."

Sam's apartment. Their house got broken into; she got hit, so they had to go back to his apartment. Natalie went to up to a cottage for the week with a friend so it was empty. Must be four or five in the morning now. They have work. "I should go get ready—"

"You're already in pajamas."

"That's not what—"

"Just lie back down."

Listens to him, because at times he knows her better than she does. Collapses against his chest, void of t-shirt now. Jeans exchanged for sweats. Shoulders feel the soft tickle of the downy comforter from his bed. A new baggie of ice lies on her eye.

"This reminds me of that one time we got lost at the turn off coming back to Toronto." Lips mime against her forehead and finish the sentence with a lingering kiss.

Laughs against his chest. His stomach ripples as he shares in the memory. "You got furious with me that day."

"You were so annoying that day."

"I thought you were going to throw me over the guardrails at the pit stop."

Fingers still from drizzling down her arms. Simple things he does that soothe and calm her into a welcoming sleep. Cranes his neck forward an inch so the bottom of his chin fills the curve of her nose. "I'd never hurt you."

"Uh huh, I'm pretty sure I had friction burns on my ass from the backseat of your car."

Corner of his grin grows against her forehead in the darkness. In her half conscious state, the thought, knowing he's smiling, makes her smile against his chest. "I channeled my anger in a more creative method."

"And you couldn't have done that today?"

"Jules, seeing you like this. In this state. In our house." Just as quickly it fades. Arm around her waist coils tighter as he exhales sharply, rustling a few strands of her hair. "It might physically hurt me."

"Sam, I'm still right here."

"I know but I can't help stop thinking about if—"

"No. No 'what ifs'. This is what happened and we're both alive." Eye slowly shuts. Hears the solid thump of his heart while his mind creates elaborate fabrications where their house was crashed into by a meteor. Or a land boat. Or a rampaging bull elephant being ridden by King Kong while he plays the tom toms. Hand spreads wide over the beat, finger pads caressing his skin. "It's enough."

Chest hammering and the arm strangling her waist relax. Takes a deep inhalation which bounces her. She grins against his chest. Feels the soft drop of a kiss on her exposed shoulder because the neck of her t-shirt has angled, then on her neck. Ends with a slight peck by her ear which erupts goose bumps on her skin. "It's all I need."


	2. Two Times

_A/N: People have been-Hey guys. People have been asking me for an update on this story so I managed to come up with a completed plot. I also added a chapter. I know. Be mad. So Chapter 3 is now Chapter 4. And the new Chapter 3 is the additional chapter. And pink is the new orange. If I don't get new pink clothes everyone will hate me. The chapters make sense with story structure (although none of these chapters relate in a linear sense).  
I'll also repeat the chapters are an AU of the situation which was already AU. So this chapter is AU^2. I'll explain more in the end A/N.  
Also rated M so enjoy. I really mean it. Rated M. I'm not bolding it. I warned you. It's rated M. If you read it and get morally corrupted I'm not responsible for you or your like._

_So Chapter 1 was pretty good, but how about this?_

One Shiny Guinea

Chapter 2

Two Times

The door jams, swollen with the summer heat. He uses the palm of his hand, fearless of prospective slivers, to bash it back into frame. Remembers with the last thunderous strike, the hasty text he received in the middle of class. In the middle of a test. Room shrouded in a hush, the sounds of pens scratching away at paper. His cell devouring the silence by vibrating eight times in his back pocket. The teacher, an ancient, skeleton of a man, unscrewed his legs from where they were stacked up on the corner of the desk and dropped a single eyelid at him.

He was in drowning level deep with her, which is why his phone was in his pocket. Was supposed to be in his bag. The text from his girlfriend, the one about her headache, her going to sleep, to shut the fuck up when he came home, how under no circumstances would there be anything remotely near an encore of yesterday afternoon. He'd be lucky if he got to see her before they went to work tomorrow. Probably would have got in more shit. But then in the middle of getting reprimanded, the teacher's phone rang; generic electronic bell and the man rose onto his two angled stork legs and left the room. Didn't come back.

Half an hour later an official released him, told him to consider this a missed class and that there would be another one held at a later date. Just after the time the higher ups selected who the new leader of Team Three would be. Just nodded and left at that point, would rather curl up beside her on their day off than be in some stupid class anyways. Or at least be in the same general vicinity as her.

But Jules—Listens intently to the house. Doesn't creak or sigh from humidity covering the wood in a gummy layer. An adhesive which sticks the pads of his fingers and feet to the floors and walls. When he battered the door, there was no immediate onslaught from upstairs. If she was here, she would've pounced on him from over the banister using a spindle as a club.

Doesn't dare walk near the stairs in case she's still boarded up there. Won't until he has some peace offering. Supper? It's still a little early, but he could pop out to the store and get a few things for a barbeque, a case of be—some more aspirin. Was going to go when he paid the—

"Oh shit." It's loud, raucous as he bursts into the kitchen. Was supposed to pay the hydro bill on the way to class. Since he almost lives with Jules, without the direct acknowledgement, he pays the hydro and the cable. While Nat does the same at his apartment. He can't do it online because all the utilities are set in Jules' accounts; he has to do it from the bank.

Supposed to do it this morning before class started, but he forgot because he was cramming for the test. Was cramming for the test because he was supposed to study yesterday. The day was forgettable. A regular, unexciting day shift which ended at the predetermined 3pm. Left plenty of scorching daylight for frolicking activities to be postponed while he sat slightly fuming on the couch. Had every intention to study. Textbook on the coffee table. Notebook and pen ready to go over hastily scribbled, barely legible notes. Then she strolled down the stairs.

Glimpsed at her over the horizon of his notebook, immediately all of his slack muscles gained some rigidity. Didn't know whether it was some kind of tease, or test, or just a sick coincidence, but she might as well have fan danced down the stairs in lingerie. It would've had the same effect. "What—What are you doing?"

"Ms. Lefebvre keeps bugging me about the rhododendron bush in the backyard. Says if I don't go trim it she's going to uproot the whole thing." She clunked open the hall closet, arm parallel to the white door trim. Stretched one of her pale, toned legs up. Balanced faultlessly on a single foot while her free arm hugged her leg to her ass. Then shook out the strained muscles and repeated the exercise with the other leg. Every time she moved, the cuffs of her khaki shorts hitched higher.

"Oh." Tactics, schematics, hostages, negotiations, the history of the SRU, all went to shit. She bent forward, half disappeared into the closet. The action danced the short cuffs, dragged the tan material up on her legs.

"Where the hell are the shears?"

Lower body poked out of the closet as she rooted. Followed the lines of her legs up to flawless thighs to her ass, tight in her shorts. He licked his lips. Her hand braced the frame, knuckles blanched from exertion. Straightened, and adjusted the short-sleeved black blouse over top of her shorts hiding a certain tattoo.

"Did you hear me?"

"What?"

"Where are the shears?"

"We moved them out to the garden shed so we could put the stepladder in there." Written notes and recommended reading in his textbook looked like hieroglyphs. She swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. Chest heaved once. Swaddled chest. Captured chest in need of rescue. He was feeling awfully heroic.

"Ugh, don't mention that stupid ladder." Stepped with quick strides between him and the coffee table. Ponytail beckoned him, a coquettish curling index finger.

With exact timing, he reached out and hooped his arms around her waist. She squealed, ill-prepared for his touch as he hauled her down into his waiting lap.

"Sam."

His lips found the side of her neck. Kissed slowly down to the hollow of her throat. Tongue flicked lightly, relished in the slight taste of her. Hands traced down the curve of her body, enticed through her light shirt. Fingers tickled under. Rested on the skin below her navel, just above the hem of her shorts.

"Sam." Was more breathless this time. Her body arched against his, neck stretched to allow him access; arm bent back so her fingers could comb through his hair. "Don't you have things to—"

"So let me do them." Face was upside down against her chest. Tongue slithered along her collarbone. Licked butterfly stitches into place. Cupped a breast through her shirt. Felt the lace material of her bra. Knew exactly which one it was. Black lace, thin straps, two clasps.

She kissed his neck. Once, twice, but then faltered. "We can do this later, you need—"

"I've missed them." Nimbly plucked down the row of buttons on her blouse. Head angled almost painfully to suck against the swell of her right breast.

"Oh my God— you saw them this morning."

Flung the sides of her shirt open. Felt her stomach flex, flush hot under his splayed fingertips. How her muscles twitched when fingers dipped inside her shorts. "That doesn't count." Sipped at her flesh, grew anything but satiated. "The two second flash of you getting dressed doesn't count. I didn't get catch up with them."

"I swear—"

Flipped her, blouse dangled and fell into a black puddle at his feet. Had this icy glare which essentially stops sex on the entire block. But his lips found the side of her neck again, felt her pulse quicken. Felt her shoulder pillow his cheek with bare, soft skin. Felt her fingernails scratch against his chest through his shirt. Felt her lips tug on his earlobe.

Mouth trickled down to where he kneaded at her covered breast. When his hands reached back to undo the clasp of her bra, her hand seized his wrist. "If that woman digs up my rhododendrons—"

"I'll buy you an entire grove."

Was a decent enough answer because the black lacy bra snapped free. Thin straps slipped down her shoulders, his lips chased their paths. Cups fell slack and empty into his hands; fingers barely weighed the ornate material before tossing her bra to the floor. Mouth tumbled from her shoulders to her collarbone. Felt her hands tug at his own shirt. Interfere by tugging on his own shirt.

Rolled her hips in his lap when he refused to shed his shirt. Supposed to remind him of the purpose, but he wanted to take it slow. Lately they'd been rushed. Sometimes rushed was good. Rushed was better than nothing, but it made him crave solidarity with her. The elongation of every single second to appreciate it.

Answered her by engulfing one of her breasts with his hand, kneaded it, fingers caressed in lazy tows as his tongue found the dip in her collarbone. Littered kisses over the opposite swell. Slowly supplied more moisture, more suction as he traveled towards the center. Ignored the steady round of her hips bobbing against his. The struggle in his jeans.

When she was on the verge of verbally challenging him, he closed his mouth over her nipple. Flicked his tongue hard and alternated with softening swirls, with cheeks nuzzles as his fingers copied his mouth's actions to their best ability. Thumb brushing with intent. Petaled skin puckered at his touch. Free arm slung around her waist, pasted her to him. Her hands burrowed in his hair, angled around his neck as the muscles in her stomach hitched with each whirl of his tongue, each rub of his thumb. Ear so close to her chest, heard the quietest of gasps. Didn't help his jean situation.

Listened to the sound of her raspy breaths, of his lips as they smacked sloppily from one breast to another. Each one nuzzled and kissed. Pampered and adored. Flesh glowed with the talent of his mouth. Noticed he left a moderate sized hickey in the center of her chest where her cleavage blossoms. Low enough it should be covered by her uniform.

Felt guilty, emotions uncontrolled and marked her slightly. Hands wilted from her breasts, slid around her back. Cradled the curve of her spine while he placed a kiss atop of the bruise he inflicted with an overzealous mouth. A mouth that hungered for a certain flavor of skin. More than just evocative peeks in morning bedroom occurrences. In the beautiful domesticity of sharing a bathroom. In the slivers of sunrises of skin in dressing for work.

She tipped his head up, caught his lips apparently unaware of the hickey or unconcerned by its birth. Would probably hear about it later. Plumpness of her lips undulated his. Tongues spiraled, roped together. Wisps of her hair tickled at his knuckles while ensconcing her head. When she tugged his shirt, he complied.

Breasts, damp from his mouth, bumped his chest as she embraced him. Bare chest to chest. Could synch up their heartbeat. Shivered when her fingers skimmed lightly over his chest, over his stomach and towards his jeans.

"You have one?" She was already undoing his zipper. Painful strain eased until her hand clasped around him. Skillful and perfect as she awaited his answer.

He was solely responsible for protection, the condoms, and since all of his spare time was spent at work or in class he hadn't had time to pick up any. She kept warning him, wouldn't doubt her walking away at any moment. But he was sure there was one left.

"Wallet." Shifted his back into the couch as she shimmied his pants and boxers to his knees. He fought them off the rest of the way with the heels of his feet. Watched her lean back to the table. The arc of her body, the expression on her face, the position of her breasts, as she retrieved his wallet. Sure enough there was an emergency condom.

She brought the corner of it to her mouth, and tore the wrapper with her teeth. The act alone was enough to keep him satisfied without the company of her hand. She spat the corner over her shoulder and discarded the rest of the wrapper with their clothes. Switched her hand to travel teasingly along him as she rolled the condom down to his base. Stroked gratuitously once, than twice.

"You're not playing fair." Groaned as her hand stroked a final time, then ghosted away from him. Milky thighs straddled his. Smoothness of her skin obscured by khaki shorts.

"Oh, so now you're impatient." Exhaled against his neck. Full lips pressed, teased just like the outfit. Squeezed the inside of her thigh, quick and playful. A warning.

She laughed almost yelped at the sensation. Lips met his once more before she planted her knees into the couch cushions. Sprouted upwards, hand slipped to her shorts to eradicate the clothing obstacle. Breasts jiggled with the movement. Stomach muscles taut. Her navel dizzied in his face and he craned his neck to smack his lips just above the line of her shorts.

She giggled once, balance pose disrupted by his talented tongue strumming against her belly button. Her hand clamped down on his shoulder. One of his hands molded to her ass, to keep her stance concrete, while the other undid her zipper. "Sam, not now."

Kept kissing as her shorts glided down her legs in the lapse of a zipper. Pooled at her knees. Mouth found the top of her thighs peeking out under the straight edge of boy shorts. Hasn't found anything softer, smoother than her skin. Doesn't want to. Anchored a finger in her panties, as he kissed above the line. Yanked down and kissed her exposed hip.

"Sam." Was gradually nuzzling lower, cheek against her thigh. Knew she was aroused. Could see it, feel it, smell it. But wanted to taste it. Dipped down when her hand predicted his next destination and materialized in the way. "I mean it. Not today."

"Okay." Abandoned the side of her panties and directed her hand away. Kissed the back of it in apology. Knows how she gets sometimes. Should've backed off before because for every second he doesn't a year of trust between them disintegrates.

But she replaced his hand on her hip. On the folded edge of her panties and rubbed at the back of his ear. Grinned at her, lopsided and tugged off the last article of clothing. Quelled the need to litter kisses all over what he considers perfection, what she still shies away from. Her hands flattened against his shoulders as she lowered herself down on him. Lips bundled, skewed to the side. Breasts traced down his chest. One hand guided himself in, the other guided her by her hip.

They paused for a moment; he dipped his forehead to rest against hers. Felt embraced completely by her. Swallowed by her. Connected on every single faction. Lips plucked at hers, first innocent, then heated. When their tongues began to mingle, her mouth offering him amnesty, her hips rocked. His thighs twitched with the first few rounds, but caught the rhythm on the third. Bucked up when she rolled down. Her breasts bounced with the beat, enticed him. On the sixth he captured a nipple in his mouth and she laughed breathlessly.

Lips sucked a trail over her chest. Hands latched to her hips to keep her steady. Kneaded in time with her rolling. Her arms linked around his neck, compressed her chest to his. Sucked his lobe into her mouth. Licked along her raised collarbone, and his own breath hitched. Rocking quickened as she grew tense. Pressured down against him with strokes of ecstasy. Thrust up into her and felt her contract around him as she gasped into his shoulder. Lips full, wet, and opened against his bare skin. Muscles vacillated, triggered his own reaction and he inadvertently pumped his hips a few more times to a beat that no longer existed.

She collapsed against him. Chest to chest. Her cheek pulled against his shoulder. Lips trembled against his skin as she grinned at him. Pale skin adopted a blush across her chest and shoulders. Her lips dyed a darker, more erotic shade of scarlet. Kissed the dappled complexion on her shoulder. Then the strained cords on the side of her neck. Then found her deliciously red lips, still tasted of honey and everything he considers home. Lapped at them with his tongue.

Pain concentrated in a sting at the back of his ear and she pulled her hand back from flicking it. "No round two, Braddock."

"Okay. Okay." But he kissed her several more times. Just snapshot kisses. Side of her neck, behind her ear, her temple, her cheek. She snatched the side of his face and kissed his cheek, rubbed it in with her thumb. Eyes hooded with satisfaction as a slanted grin crossed her face.

Hands formed to his shoulders again as she shifted her hips against him. Wanted to add that if there wasn't going to be a round two, she shouldn't wiggle around so much. Instead his hands shot to her hips. Steadied her until she was stable on her knees again.

They both noticed it at about the same time. She had the pad of one foot on the area rug. Took her first step from the couch and noticed it. Peered down at her nude body and questioned "Why— ?" Simultaneously he reached down to remove the condom and tie it off. Recognized it didn't look customary, like most of the condoms did before he tossed them. Full.

"It broke." The break only grew larger, more noticeable, more mocking as he dragged it off. There was a little inside, but more inside her.

"It—"

"It broke." Expressed again, more urgency in his voice. They'd escaped chancing it once before, a month after they rekindled their relationship. It was either chancing it or break up at a random pit stop on the way back to Toronto. He was lost and tired. Her every word was just fuel for his anger and they had the biggest fight they'd ever had, before yesterday. Chanced it in the back seat of his SUV.

Waited a half a month. Nearly three weeks of his nightly 'spontaneous' trips to the grocery store preempted by his question of if she needed anything. Tampons? A goddamn pregnancy test? She barely talked to him. But finally exited the bathroom one day when he was at her house and expressed, 'I got it.' Rejoicing was had in the streets. Alcohol was drunk. A baby after a month was—

"You have to—"

"Yeah, I'm going to go shower."

He never studied for his test. She never trimmed the rhododendron bush. He redressed and tossed the condom. Pissed in the half-bath underneath the stairs. Flushed and heard her yelp from the decapitation of cold water. Winced and yelled, "Sorry."

Cleaned up the front room and sat on the couch and waited. Just waited. Because they needed to discuss everything. Whose fault it was that the condom broke. His. But she did put it on this time. Why they didn't have more condoms. His. But she did wake up early one morning and rub against him knowing what it would lead to. Who wanted to have sex in the first place. Him. But she could've said no. He backs off whenever she says no.

But she was completely serene about it. Acted like it didn't happen and when he brought it up she explained there was nothing they could do now but wait. They would deal with what they got when it happened. Her calmness ignited him, she was the one with commitment issues, but it was suddenly acceptable to create a life when they were living two half lives together?

She asked him why he was freaking out, and he answered, "Because I don't want to have a fucking baby."

It 's both the truth and the untruth. Would love to have a baby with her. Just not right now, just like he didn't want to when they were reunited for a month. Not right now when he's trying to get a better job. When she won't even let him move in. When she won't marry him. There's an order, he's military and can't fuck with the order.

But she didn't get a chance to hear his weak excuses. Just drifted past him, face muscles limp and sunken. Eyes on the floor. Tiptoed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door so hard a framed picture of them at the beach crashed to the floor. Spent the night cleaning up glass and trying to figure out the probabilities. Of him passing the test without studying. Of her actually becoming pregnant from a broken condom. Of their relationship surviving his outward declaration of hatred for their unborn children.

The white sheen from paper clashes brightly against the wooden kitchen table. The empty frame weighs it down. Beach photo curls in the humidity. Scrawled out in her chicken scratch is a curt note. She got called into work. She paid the hydro bill. The bitch next door dug up her flowers. Jules is going to be lethal tonight.

A door slams again. This time the front. Harder than his own absent jamming of the wood into the frame. Weather roasts his brain. A baby wouldn't be so bad, not the worst thing in the world. Maybe it would warm her up to the idea of at least letting him move in completely. But knows that won't happen. He'll love it the moment it's born. Hold it, and bond with it in ways unexplained. Then their lack of commitment will lead to their break up. She'll take it and leave. Only see it on weekends. She'll move to an entirely different city. Ferrying their goddamn baby back and forth. He grew up with his father absent all the time. She grew up with no mom. They could do better. So much better. If she wanted to.

Stomps about in the front room, no doubt a side effect from the headache because usually she's stealth as hell. Only gets to hear her when she wants to be heard. Left his sneakers by the door, she hates that. Surprised she hasn't punted them into the kitchen and at the back of his head like it's a goalpost.

"I'm sorry about your flowers." Resets the note on the table. Tries not to be jealous of himself in the picture of them at the beach. Stupid, smug bastard who had her so happy. You're going to fuck it up. She still doesn't respond to him and he starts to grow angry again. Is she really going to ignore him? For how long? Until they find out? After? It's scary, but he can imagine being in a delivery room with her, him addressing her, and her turning away from him. Shrouding him in classroom level silence.

"Jules, are you really going to—" Shuffles back into the living room like he's climbing the stairs to the gallows. But stops short of pulling the noose around his neck, because the person in their living room isn't Jules.

* * *

"Sure did a number on the room." Cop's small feet clomp over spilled layers of wreckage. The coffee table capsized, his notebook from class ripped, paged masticated, digested and spit up. TV smashed on the floor, spider web cracking through the screen, smokes slightly from the mess of wires still connecting it to the outlet. At least it's not sizzling anymore.

Sits on the couch. Her couch in her living room though they both live here. He destroyed her living room while beating the shit out of the guy in it. Various explanations for his behavior. Constructs itself in a set of ever steeper concrete steps. "There was a guy in my living room, what would you do?"

That's a small portion of it. Anger was a larger portion of it. Almost all of it in fact. Anger about what had happened yesterday between him and Jules on this exact couch, ironically the only thing spared in his torrential violence. So angry and if he was at the SRU and she was ignoring him with four more guys latching on to kick him while he was down, he would've been hitting the shit out of a punching bag. Well, he didn't have a punching bag; he had a druggie in his front room.

"Poor sap picks a random house to break into and it belongs to a cop." The burly officer tries to shake his head with a deep chortle, but his neck is nonexistent, so it transfers into spinal twists. Pauses with his hands on his hips, imitates a tea kettle as he investigates the wall of pictures. Pictures of him and Jules. One square lighter in color. One picture missing.

Lets out a low whistle to finish his charade and turns away from the wall. Tips the brim of his hat up so his tiny, side set eyes are fully visible. "If I had something like that to protect, I would've whooped this guy's ass too."

"She doesn't need protecting." But that's exactly it. The main reason he beat the guy within an inch of consciousness. What if he was still in class? What if Jules didn't get called into work? If she was the one he pulled a gun on. What if she was knocked out from her headache pills and he crept upstairs and—it just made him keep hitting. Gets that people are going to threaten her on the job, that it comes with the territory, and that bulletproof vests are going to do shit to help, so he has to be hyperaware. But the thought of someone, inside their house—even the idea of them threatening her, it makes him want to beat up the guy all over again.

"Doesn't mean you can't give it." There's raw crunching of valuables and knickknacks crushing underneath the cop's cloven hooves as he returns to the overturned coffee table. Legs broken, a crack gestating down the center. "I hope you were insured."

Shrugs. Not sure if she is or not. Still trying to settle his heartbeat. Sniper breathing. Glad he was the one who sustained a fat lip, black eye, and a cut on his cheek. Not her. What if she couldn't protect herself because she was protecting something else, something they created on accident that he abused the second it happened?

"You want me to call your wife?"

"She's not my wife."

"Really?" Cop chuckles as he scratches harshly, pen drilling into his notebook. Fleshy tongue darting out from between bright white teeth. "I'd get on that or I'm liable to come back here and swoop her off her feet myself."

He has gotten on that—well, physically and abstractly. Has asked her to marry him. Not formally, down on one knee with a ring. Not jokingly either. Had his arms wrapped around her waist while they watched the sun set by the peer. Sky full of warmth, his arms full of love and he asked what she thought about marrying him. They're not married, that's what she thought.

"You want me to call her anyway?"

"No, she's at work. It's fine."

"Ah, I get it." Points the pen at him and chortles again. Hears mucus being gargled. Eyes disappear in the shadow of his hat and his face develops into two rows of teeth like a great white shark. "Give you time to clean up before she gets here."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Frame's shot." Partner pipes up from where he's been standing in their doorway for the last fifteen minutes. Fat cop cuffed the guy, took him to the car, and this skinny guy's just been staring at splintered wood. Waiting for Christmas mistletoe and someone to kiss. "Gonna have ta find somewhere else."

"You and the Missus got somewhere else to stay?" Cop's pointed boot tip knocks through debris. Flotsam washed to the shore. The wreckage of his relationship strewn all over the scuffed hardwood floors for people with metal detectors to find and take home as underappreciated mementos.

"She's not my Missus." Shakes his head and blood sprinkles, a few drops from his face dab over his forearm and soak into his jeans.

Cop bends with his knees to pick something up. Doesn't let his hands completely touch the ground. Large stomach, an inner tube under his clothes, blocks the movement. He always wonders how cops get the weight. Keep the weight. Can work with the weight. Chase someone down. Humpty Dumpty bobbles to him. Lets the silver condom wrapper from last night flutter into his blood blotted lap. Didn't clean up as good as he thought yesterday. "Sure she's not."

"Julianna?"

Stuffs the wrapper in between the couch cushions when the cop is distracted by another man calling out his girlfriend's name. Steve the fucking paramedic came to visit to cherry a perfect night. Dumbelled lip twitches as he sneers. Doesn't mind that Jules is still friends with him, or that Jules has friends, or guy friends or anything like that. It's that Steve doesn't hide his feelings for her. It's dangerous because he did the same thing and after burning down her resistance, he won.

"Who are you?" Chunky cop jostles his whole body when he takes lumbering steps forward. Hat tipping up, side eyes inspecting Steve as a threat or a snack.

"That's Steve the paramedic."

Cop glances over Steve once. Head retracting into negative neck space. Buds at least four chins. Squinting a beady eye he questions, "You a paramedic?"

Blood flows slow and thick from a cut he assumed was minute in size. Given to him by the serrated trigger and harsh handle of a handgun. Glances up from the blood smeared across his thumb from his dabbing explorations and huffs, "Obviously."

"Uh uh. Don't you start giving me attitude." Cop flips back. Cartwheels on his feet. A man so large with the speed of a bear. Swings a stumpy, hairy paw towards him, a finger jabbing in accusation. "We had a good rapport. You give attitude, you're going to get it back."

"Okay." Winces a little as fingers dip directly into the tear in his skin. Into a pool of deep red blood, the same color as Jules lips last night when he couldn't stop kissing them. Tongue touches the center of his bottom lip and for a second he can taste honey instead of copper. "Sorry."

"Mmm." Thick brow rolls like jelly while he shifts back to Steve. Steve, who stands perfectly still despite the mess, despite his injuries, despite obviously only coming to help Jules. His face is the same cardboard cutout smile. Hides all real emotion behind a plastered mask. "You get the guy in the back of the cruiser?"

"My partner's taking care of him." Keeps the grin, spooled and stretched tight. A towel wrung of water. The cop investigates his painted on eyes. The best work of ceramic and robotics any of them have ever seen. Finally Steve taps the red lunchbox tucked underneath his arm. "Can I—?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Red box ends up at his feet. Among the torn pages telling him violence is a last resort. To always hear the subject's feelings before launching a physical attack. Didn't even let the guy get in a mixed syllable before tackling him. Took three hits in the face with what he found out later was a gun. Then brutally ballroom danced with the guy. "What happened? Is Jules—"

"Jules is fine." Exhales through his front teeth. Spit and blood froth at his bottom lip. Boil and stick into the craggy thick skin. "She's at work."

"That's good—" Snaps on rubber gloves. A single finger rifles through the compartments of the box until it brings back a pitiful piece of gauze. His head snaps up in sudden realization. "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant."

Bends forward. At his hips, not at the knees like the plump cop who's on their porch with his skinny partner. Steve's finger jabs into his jaw. He squints his eye to ward off the pain. "You didn't call her to tell her about the tornado alley in her living room?"

Can see that call perfectly. Hey Jules, you know how I might have knocked you up yesterday and then told you that I didn't want our fucking baby? Well I've been real angry since then and there was a druggie who broke into the house—I know right. So anyway I kicked his ass. Oh no, the front room is a mess. A horrible, horrible, not even flea market worthy, mess. So now you can pay for a new front room and our illegitimate child. "No. It's not like she can do much about it."

Steve hands him the piece of gauze and points to his own lip. "Things, uh—"scratches at it awkwardly as he bows his head, digging through the red box some more. Hesitant to ask. Hesitant to help. "Things okay between you two?"

Narrows his eyes. The same surge of heat flashing through him. Raw rage, the need to defend. Taps the cotton at his lip. Focuses on the nips of pain. "Great."

"Shame about the coffee table."

"The coffee table?"

"Yeah, it was her grandma's."

"Oh."

"So was that cabinet." Gestures to a capsized china cabinet in the corner. Drops of sweat surface on the back of his neck. Wrecked her whole life. One of the doors ripped from the hinges, glass shattered. Just another empty frame. All the dishes within smashed to puzzle piece fragments. "And her bed frame."

She never tells him anything. The origin of anything. The reason for anything. Why she painted rooms certain colors. Why she picked certain patterns or pieces of furniture. Where she got things. Pictures on the wall. Candles decapitated on the floor. If their fragrances trigger some happy memory for her. He asks, starts to ask and she cuts through his question with a look, or a subject change. He lets her, because he loves her, God he loves her, but he knows nothing about her because she won't let him know anything. It's how he doesn't know she won't take their baby one day and run. Lets it feed his—Her bed frame? Steve saw her bed. Steve the stupid paramedic saw her bed. Motherfuc—"What the he—"

"I think her grandma gave them to her because she was the least likely to break or sell them." Vials, packets collide within the lunchbox. Just a kid going to school. Fingers reappear sudden at his eye. Prod the tender skin like a meat tenderizer. Dig down under they feel bone like he's charting a topographical map. "You know her brothers."

"No I don't. Haven't met them."

"Oh, well." Fingers retract and for the first time that stupid permanent grin gains some character. Some smugness to it. Some superiority. Little flick in the corners. Steve bends forward, head dipping, shadow consuming the first sincere grin he's ever had. Fingers return with a second piece of gauze. "Don't take it personally. I mean they're all over the place. It's hard to get them together. When we dated, I only got to see them once."

The rage compacts in his chest again, and he snorts it out through his nose. Two hot bursts of fury. Doesn't pluck the bandage offered to him. The only reason he doesn't knock Steve's hand away is Jules. He's already pissed her off to the point of capacity. Him hurting Steve, beating Steve, throwing Steve like a big gangly dummy around the living room like he wants to would only exacerbate things. "Look, I get that—"

"Sam?"

And then he's never been more relieved Steve's around. She's home, and he's definitely going to need medical attention when she's through. Wonders how many times he can apologize before the sincerity evaporates from within his words. Knows it already has. After the first 'sorry'. Nothing he can do anyways, it's all up to her.

Steve stands, towers over him. A relative of the same grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Smugness because he fucked up. Ignores it, just strains his lips. Skin numb in a weird tightness he hasn't felt since high school. A rubbery weight dangling. In the doorway she shoves past the invalid partner, still concerned with the framework. Sets a warpath directly towards him in their disrupted living room.

Can't watch as she approaches because he's seen her face slackened into discontent too much lately. Can handle and dispose of her rage fine, it's the disappointment he doesn't do well with. Looking in her eyes, discovering a fresh varnish of tears, knowing he caused them. When she gets close enough he clears his throat, eyes steady on a wick connecting two halves of a broken candle, scent he'll never know the importance of. "Sorry I messed up the—"

"Are you okay?" Flounces to the arm of the couch, her hands immediately preening his face. Fingers softer, lighter, cooler, tidier than Steve's previous pulverizing of his face. Curve over his eye socket. Trace his lower lip. Then both hands end up low on opposite cheeks, fingers splaying. She examines him with narrowing eyes. Lasts longer than a minute. A good moment of silence for the loss of their living room. Her brown eyes simmer into his.

Finally blinks, comes out of her pensive coma. Drops a gentle kiss onto his forehead and cradles his head gently to her breasts. Combs a hand through his hair while his hands hook around her waist. Tries not to think about where they were at this time last night. Where they'll be at this time next year. Or the fact that from contact with his cheek, he knows what bra she's wearing.

"I wrecked the living room." Speaks into the open collar of a different short-sleeved blouse. Goosebumps blossom on the creamy swell of her left breast hidden by fabric, but visible to him by perspective. Marking the center of her cleavage is a red bruise which his lips could form around. Recreate perfectly. He was right about the bra. He likes this one more.

"Shut up." One hand caresses his neck. Barely there strokes. The other curves around to hug his back. Her chin settles on the top of his head. Nests in his hair. Feels it angle. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine Jules." Hears the grin in Steve's voice, pictures it seeping out through a beam and gritting teeth.

Is fine to let them converse about him. Happy where he is, in a dismantled living room he destroyed with unbridled rage that someone might threaten her in, of all places, their home. Happy hearing the frantic but steadily settling beat of her heart. Like a frightened bird in a cage, flaps around until it collapses back onto a branch.

Hopes Steve can sense the fuck you in his blissful grin while his cheek compresses to her faultless skin. The intoxicating aroma of her, the placation of her fingers ruffling his hair or her lips dropping a wayward kiss into the crown of his head. "What about the cut? Does it need stitches?"

"It might need some butterfly stitches." Random jostling of medical accessories. Red lunchbox closes with a double snap. "It might heal on its own though. You could take him to the hospital to be sure."

Her chest expands, contracts as it gathers and retains air to sigh it out. Hand tickles along his jaw, falls from his back, her body flexes as an indication for him to release her. Would hold her until someone physically pried them apart, but what happened yesterday is still a reality.

With reluctance, his arms slide from her waist, her hips her thighs. Unintentionally cause her to shift with discomfort. Eyes snag his for a second, a fraction of a second, before they flit away, incapable of keeping his gaze. Glides off the arm of the couch, eyes dropping into the debris and carpet stains.

Meanders to Steve, one arm slung around her stomach. A punch in his. Communicates to him she still remembers what he said. Is nowhere near forgiving him. "Thank you, Steve." Reaches her arms up around his neck, pulling him into a friendly hug. "Really. I appreciate it."

She doesn't do it to inspire jealousy within him. But it does. Like the buried side to the coin. What their lives could still be. Him watching them embrace from afar and still know what her touch is like. Steve watches him from over her shoulder. Painted eyes tinting with jealousy, can't camouflage it with the same cheesy grin and peaked brows.

"No problem, Jules." Steve hugs her tightly, hands spreading across her back. Over the bra he guessed. The bra only he should ever have knowledge of because he bought it for her. Hugs her a little too long, almost challenging.

He sucks in his fat lip. Forgets it's bruised. Exhales sharply at the pile of scaly blood waiting for him to taste. The punch of the tender tissue being stabbed by his tongue. The sound of his torment causes Jules to glance over her shoulder at him, his tongue still poking the crack in his lip. She disengages from the hug.

"It was good to see you." Steve adds and continues to the door. Obviously defeated, like every time they meet. Only, he knows they've met when he's not around, even by happenstance. On the job, on the street. Wonders how she acted. How Steve acted. How she spoke of him and their relationship, which is stuck and ageless. "Even though it wasn't under happier circumstances."

"Good to see you too, Steve." She waves him off. Wants to see the action as dulled and sweeping him out of her house. But it's true. Genuine. She was happy to see him because she doesn't have a lot of people from that part of her life that she likes, that she trusts. That idiot happens to be one of them, and it irks him, because maybe she trusts Steve in a way she doesn't trust him. Because Steve has fathomless knowledge on her that he doesn't.

"Come on." Tugs his hand like she did the first night they both ventured back to his apartment. Told him there was no place she'd rather be, even though she won't take the steps to make it concrete.

But her hand is in his. Not stuck stationary in quicksand or tar for archaeologist to dig up years later. Willingly placed in his hand, as his head was willingly placed to her chest. Willingly bends forward and kisses the puffy skin around his eye lighter than air. "Let's go to the hospital you Big Ox."

* * *

A curtain shrouds them from identical units in the rushed downtown emergency room. Can't count all the times he's been here. For her gunshot wound. For his supposed concussion. For Natalie's bruised face. For her blood loss. Should just live here, rent out one of these units. Would save the roiling in his gut every time they cross through the automatic doors. Fears one time he'll cross the hospital threshold with her, and he'll leave without her.

Hands clasp tightly in his lap because they haven't spoken a word since they left the mess of her house. Since they packed a suitcase and popped it in the trunk of his SUV because that's what the spot at his apartment building is registered to. She drove them here in complete silence, mouth tight in contemplation. Always on the verge of speaking, but never uttering a mashed word. Like she always suddenly remembered what happened yesterday. What he did. What he said.

He waits on the gurney. She folds into the corner of their allotment. Beside the dormant heart monitor. Leans against the avocado wall. Chipped and picked at by a thousand nervous people. Index finger fastening to her lower lip not unlike his a day before around the elastic trim of her boy cuts. Front teeth shred her nail away. Arm hugging structuring arm to her body.

"I'm sorry about your front room. About your cabinet and coffee table." Apologizes again because it's all he can do. Can't apologize for what he wants to in fear that she'll burst out of the unit, out of the hospital, out of the city and out of his life. Only get to see her briefly for small talk before weekend pickups.

"It's fine." Drops her hand, ducks her head telling him it's not. Won't look at him. Instead becomes absorbed in the sick mesh of colors decorating the curtain. None of them correspond in any plausible connection.

"And about you having to pay the hydro bill."

"It's fine."

"And about your flowers."

"I don't give a shit about any of those things." Voice wavers, triumphs for only a word, then dives into weakness. Into a tepid, emotional state. Fingers tremor, flicker away from her face, then relax as her chest, her ribs fall in sequence. "I came home and some cop told me a guy attacked my boyfriend in our house. Do you know how I felt?"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine." Scoffs, chin almost to her chest, arms devour her body. Wishes he could give her the love, the reassurance, the comfort with his own arms. Wishes he knew she wouldn't shove him away if he tried. "And apologizing for every single thing except the one you should be. The one I hope you feel guilty about."

"How the fuck did this go from—"

"Because I was so relieved you were okay, Sam." A laugh grates in her throat. Expels ruefully. A single tear plummets from her right eye. Swerves inebriated down her cheek before dangling from her jaw. "I was so relieved you were okay, and then I realized we're not okay. Not after what you said."

"I didn't mean for it to be so harsh—"

"It's not just that." Swipes along her cheek with the palm of her hand. Wants to kiss away her tears. Gather her in his arms. Swat at her hair curling, sleeping silky in a ponytail. Follow the pattern on the hem of her blouse with his fingertips. "We want different things, Sam."

"You don't even know what I want."

"It's obviously not a fucking baby."

"We don't even know if you are—"

"But I want kids some day. Some day soon." Elbow stable on top of the heart monitor, her face melts against her forearm. Fatigued, like she's annoyed at explaining this to him, but they've never talked about it. They've never talked about anything. "Not today Sam, but soon."

"I'd love to have kids with you too someday soon." It's not a lie. Doesn't want to have a family with anyone else. Definitely doesn't want her to have a family with someone else. Most definitely doesn't want someone else raising his kids with her. "But I want to do things in order."

"In order?"

"Jules, I asked you to marry me, you said no. You won't even let me move into your house. You won't let me meet your brothers. You won't tell me anything about—"

"You proposed after a month, Sam. A month. It was—And there's no connection between babies and marriage."

"There is a direct connection between babies and marriage." Their disagreement absorbs volumes. Hitting the loud crashes of arguments they save for home or pit stops on the way back to Toronto. Drown out the din of the bustling emergency room they're splat in the middle of. "People get married and then they have babies."

Her fingers massage her left temple, eyes slipping closed for a single second. Remembers her headache for the first time. Inactive to him during the commotion. The rotating police lights, the sirens, the packing, the downtown driving, the medical forms and hectic waiting room. Drift half open, not in satisfaction, but exhaustion. Tone plummets to a surrendering whisper, "Because that's the only way things ever happen."

For her sake he levels his speech. Sands the sharp edges to not tempt any more pain. Copies her gentler pitch. "It's the right way to do things. The way I want to do them. "

"Really?" His concession earns him her movement. Unglues herself from the far corner. Eyes even dart up to briefly meet his. Stops before him, sandaled feet pigeon toed. Fingers bounce off each other. Face dips to hide her expression, her emotions. Her hair swerves against her neck. Naturally and smooth like a river. "Was it right to be with me when it was against direct orders?"

Can't even comprehend her question. Can't understand her doubt. Launches a hand, capturing hers as she flinches, tries to withdraw. "You're different." Reels her towards him, hesitant at first but then she shuffles the final foot. He grabs her other hand, reveling in being close to her. "You're worth it."

"Our baby would be half me, Sam." She places his hands on her hips so his fingers splay across her navel. A stomach, her stomach which could house the final stake in their relationship. It's an action that terrifies him to no end. "You're telling me you couldn't—"

Rips his hands away from her. Disguises the aggression by sweeping her hands to his mouth, placing a kiss on her ring finger. "And you're telling me you wouldn't marry me knowing you're the only woman I've ever loved? The only one I'll ever want?"

Their connection dissolves. Shatters, glass from her grandmother's cabinet doors all over their living room floor. Splinters in his hands and heels. Lets her hands fall from his mouth. Her body drift from the embrace. "I guess that answers it doesn't it?"

"Jules—"

"I'm going to get a cab, stay somewhere else tonight."

"Don't do this." Shakes his head once, but doesn't twitch a muscle to chase her. Can't spend his life chasing her when she leaves. She wants to leave for a reason and eventually he'll get tired of following her. Of crawling through the desert without a drop to drink. Of letting her decide everything. "We should talk this out."

"We just did, Sam." Pauses, bisected by the gap in the curtain. Bright fluorescent lights illuminating the emergency room provide her with a blank background. Occasionally personnel journey too close to the curtain and create human sized shadow puppets against the disgusting sea of colors. Expects her to charge out, shout angry curses at him so when he finds her later he'll have hell to soothe. But her face is disappointment again. Blended and sloping brows, a frown that connects the pain in her heart to his. "You said enough for both of us."

* * *

A mess. A big fucking mess. It's what he left in Jules' living room. It's how he left their relationship. It's what half of his face is bloated into, train tracks of seven stitches sewn into his cheek; butterfly stitches indeed, Steve the fucking paramedic. It's what his apartment looks like now that his sister's been its only permanent resident. Kicks a pair of boxers that do not belong to him underneath the couch, ignoring the fact they even exist. Maybe not the only resident.

Hits enter on his cell phone again, and it blips through her number. Flashes ten digits onto the screen. An automated voice greets him. Tells him the number's not in service right now. Basically tells him to fuck right off because his girlfriend's shut off her phone. Is holed up in some hotel, and he can't stop thinking she's not safe. Can't help thinking she's already started running.

Wonders again if their relationship is worth combusting because of their differentiating views. They've always had them. They're both stubborn as hell. It's usually what turns them both on. Got in an argument about a stepladder. He bought it so she wouldn't break her neck when changing the kitchen light bulbs. Stood precariously on piled kitchen chairs like a circus act. She refused to use the ladder because she didn't need it. He warned, then predicted that she was going to fall.

Caught her one day mid fall, saw the chair clatter from behind the island and dove like he was catching a baseball. Did catch her, bundled in his lap. Took a moment to hold her, asked if she was okay and then gave her shit for not using the ladder. She gave him shit for not changing the bulbs himself. Really didn't have a response to that. He's taller. It's easier. So now he changes the bulbs. That innovation was christened with sex on the kitchen floor. The stepladder went into the hall closet. The sheers went to the shed. A condom broke and the world went to hell.

Hits enter again. Ten digits flash by. Doesn't even ring once. Just the automated voice telling him to give up, because he's fucked up majorly this time and he'll be lucky if he gets hit for child support in nine months. Wouldn't have been so bad if she just answered with a maybe. Maybe she would marry him. Maybe there was a hypothetical future with him besides what may or may not result from a broken condom. Would've been nice to decide that future for themselves.

Chucks his phone to the coffee table. Littered with fashion magazines, lip gloss, a dirty dish, and numerous rings from not using coasters. No aspirin or Tylenol or any tablet in a relatable family. Natalie can forget her dirty dish and half of the makeup the department store has to offer, but takes all the pain pills in the place.

Dumps a pile of tank tops, skirts and dresses from the couch onto a chair in the corner. Remembers when everything was neat. Remembers when he lived here and knew where everything was. Remembers when she showed up one day, barely got through the door and he kissed her. Hands everywhere because it was like the first time he could breathe in three years. When she tagged him home that night and slept in his arms. How he would disengage from her cuddle on the couch and tell her he had to head home. Kiss her like wasn't going to see her in six hours at work. How when she did the same thing here, he wrapped around her and wouldn't let go.

Rubs his temple, fingers cautious of his plumming eye. Wonders how her headache is. How the shift was. What the hot call was. Wants to tell her about the test that happened but didn't happen. The stork he has for a teacher who flew the coop. How all he needs is a cigar and he could be a mascot for baby products.

Eye flutters as his revelation comes full circle. Can't escape it. Head falls over the ledge of his leather couch and he stares at the stucco crescents trapped on his ceiling. Stared at them with her head heavy on his chest in sleep. Fingers fanned out her hair, traced the sigh of a tattoo on her lower back.

Should call her again. Is going to. Will keep calling until he gets through or until the automated voice tells him a different message. Or until he doesn't and calls up Spike to trace her movements through the cab company. Reaches for his phone but there's a knock on the door.

God help him if it's the owner of the boxers come back to claim them. He's already beaten up one guy today; has absolutely no qualms about kicking another stranger's ass. By the keep of the apartment he could say the guy was ransacking the place. Moans as he stands, the room staggers around him, his eye booms a little. Unlocks the chain without any hesitancy because after the last twenty-four hours nothing—

But she's there. In the same blouse and khakis as before. The same blouse where he can see the hickey he left on her chest perfectly. Another accident. The first of a never ending trail of decimation. Ponytail abandoned, hair loose around her face, sticking slightly to her neck from the heat. Mouth pinched to the side.

Pushes right past him. Just like the first night. Breezes by his stable arm because there's nothing more he wants than her with him in any form. Nothing more he fears than that euphoria being disrupted by her disappearance. By her removal.

"I brought you some stuff because I figured—"

"Where the hell were you?" Cracks under the pressure of being normal. Shuts the door, locking it. Knowing it doesn't do anything against stopping druggies with guns coming in to threaten her. Doesn't stop her from leaving.

Arches an eyebrow at him, unpacking things from a white plastic bag onto the counter. The counter where he placed her. Hand skimmed the smoothness of her thigh. Lips tasted the suppleness of her skin in renaissance. He really did breath again that day. Feels his chest settle at the sight of her tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "The grocery store?"

"And you couldn't turn on your phone?"

"Didn't really feel like talking to you."

"Then why are you here?"

"You know what? I'm asking myself the same—"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. God, don't leave again." Hands bump her biceps. Muscles tense at his touch, but slowly relax fitting her expression. "Please don't leave."

"I came here because my stuff is still packed with yours." Steps back from him. His hands lose contact with her, but he trails her around the counter. So afraid if he's not near, she'll stray. He won't be able to find her. Plastic bag rustles as she brings out cartons of premade food. "But I thought you probably hadn't eaten yet. And then I thought Natalie would've used all your Tylenol for hangovers. And then I thought there wouldn't be anything in the freezer for you to put on your eye but calorie-wise dinners."

A yellow bag of generic frozen corn hits the counter once as she breaks the contents. Mistakes the abuse for mislaid anger, but she hands him the crinkling package and points to his eye. "They were on sale. We used peas on the farm."

Bunches the leaky plastic bag to his eye. Doesn't feel better, but doesn't really feel worse. Mostly feels like an idiot standing in a dirty apartment with a bag of corn stuck to his face. She rips at the cardboard box to free the pills. "Why didn't you just use ice?"

"Because ice was reserved for my dad's scotch." Disables the child lock, yanks out the cotton and plops two pills into his hand. Leaves two in her closed fist as she marches to the fridge.

"How's your headache?"

"It hurts like a son of a bitch." Hands him a single bottle of water. Probably the only thing left in the fridge besides Kool-Aid. Natalie and her eighty different colors of liquid sugar. Tries to nudge the bottle back so she can take her pills first, but she ignores the action. Reluctantly, he swallows his first. "I didn't come here to talk about my alcoholic dad or my headache."

"I know." Pills sort of jam in his throat because it's the first time she's admitted to having an alcoholic father. They usually just dance around the subject until she changes it, which happens within the first three sentences.

"I thought about how you reacted. Why you would react that way." Shoves the pills into her mouth. Swallows them with a swig of water. With ease. Sets the bottle back onto the counter beside the makeshift buffet of food. "I thought what would make me act that way. The only thing I could think of was fear."

"I'm not afraid."

"You have to be afraid of something to react like that." Cheek to shoulder, she peers at him as she forages through the cupboards for dishes. All of them appear empty except for random packets of Kool-Aid. "Disappointing your parents? The change in lifestyle? Another person relying on—"

"What about you and your inability to commit?" Smashes his face into the freezer bag. Finds solace in the pain. How it distracts, from his autopilot and aflame relationship, his maybe baby, the family heirlooms he destroyed earlier, the coked up man brandishing a gun in what would be his living room if she would let just fucking commit, his disgusting sister and her Kool-Aid addiction.

"Sam." Returns with white paper plates decorated with navy blue dots. A blue line. Two blue lines. A pink plus. Three white diamonds in a ring. "After a month of dating, you asked me to marry you."

"It was six weeks." Sighs into his hands because he memorized the day. Knew the day perfectly because he knew something important was going to happen on that day. It was a few days after the obliteration of their first pregnancy scare. Didn't think the memory would be her crushing him at the peer. Didn't see her until work two days later. Didn't say a word to her. What was he supposed to say to her? 'No' was pretty final.

"It was insane. We were just getting to know each other again." Finally she came over to the apartment. Nat answered the door. He was moping on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, heels dug into the pristine coffee table. Nat warned he was in a serious mood and then snuck out to go get Kool-Aid or makeup.

"It was romantic because I love you more than anything." Sat down next to him, hand caressed his cheek and she apologized. Explained that she was in love with him without a doubt, she just needed a little more time to fall in love with the idea of marrying him. How much time?

"Isn't it better that we didn't rush things?"

"And a baby's not going to do that?"

"And forcing a marriage isn't?"

"Jules." Scoffs because their stubbornness stains them, permeates their attitudes. On lesser things, things like life endangering balancing acts on kitchen chairs, he submits to. Can't on this. Won't on this, because she'll never be willing to meet him halfway and he'll always be chasing.

Slams her corn on the counter. Ambles to the couch, his once unspoiled couch now covered in scuffs and dulled. Flops in the deflated cushion, eyes on the crescents again. "This isn't going to work. Usually there's some middle ground but—"

Another depression as she sags into the conjoining cushion. Corn plops to the graffitied coffee table. Both her hands, soft, cold, a little wet from the bag, clasp his like a buoy floating in the ocean. "Just tell me what you're so afra—"

"I'm not afraid." Reclaims his hand like she replaced it on her hip. The hip he drizzled with kisses yesterday night. The hip where his palm planted and fingers spread out to tease maybe accepting the idea of having a baby.

"I don't know why you're so ashamed to admit it." Drops the freezer bag on his knee, but won't touch him. Cold juices seep through denim. Blot over orbs of maroon bloodstains. "I'm terrified."

Flops the bag once. Then twice. Then takes the bait. "Of what?"

"Of money. How we'd pay for it. What I'd do for a job. If I'd go back, I mean we could get alternating shifts, but it's a dangerous job and that wouldn't be fair. Mostly of something happening to you. Then I'd just be left alone with this baby and I'm afraid I'd be so depressed and so fur—"

"I'm already terrified something's going to happen to you." Clusters the bag at his eye. An improvised confessional. Can't deal with her reactions. What she thinks of him. Her disappointment. Her voluntary abandonment. "I lie awake because there've been too many close calls. One of these days, it's not going to be a close call. You out there pregnant, you out there with a baby, I'd need heavy medication."

Tender fingertips lick at his neck, curl into his hair as she attempts to calm him. Scoots closer to him, her thigh brushing against his. Yesterday straddled his. Came together with his. Might have created something with him.

"I'm terrified you'd leave," muffles it into his hand. Ashamed to admit she'll abandon him. She did once. Didn't go far but still left him solitary in a coffee shop. "One day you'd just get tired of being with me. Just take our baby and go."

Hand falters from his face and his heart aches. It burns because it feels like she's already fleeting. Running from his lack of faith. "Sam, why would I ever—"

"I'd just have to watch you, and them, make a new life with someone else." Shoulders grow slack with morose. He pictures it so perfectly in his head like a living nightmare. Like watching her with Steve. Watching her and his baby with Steve when all he wanted was to make things a little more concrete. "I'd feel like I'm the outsider when you're the only thing I've ever wanted."

Cool fingers reappear at the point of his chin. Pry the corn bag from his face and let it tumble to the rug. Tip his bowed head forward until he views tear laden eyes. Nears her face to his, tip of her nose breezing his. "I will never want anyone else but you. I've never loved anyone like I love you and I don't want to."

It's the middle ground. The compromise. He can deal with not being married to her. With technically living in different houses. Even if there happens to be a baby Braddock, he can deal with it. Because he's never believed anything more than what she just told him. All the rage, the fear, the depression, flushed from his body with each caress of her words.

"And I promise not to take our babies to Iqaluit and dye their blond hair in an attempt to keep them from you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Stops her attempt to kiss him with a solid hand to her shoulder. Instead she twists it into a slight embrace. Maneuvers so her back is against his chest and slumps into his lap. "'Babies'? How many hypothetical children do we have?"

"None since you don't fucking want any." Head barely lifting from the crook of his neck, she kisses a bruise under his chin. Fingers trail over the contusion as her brow furrows.

"A word of advice though, I do want babies, Braddock." Collects herself into a sitting position, her hands on his shoulders, just like a day before when only a condom broke. Pecks the swollen skin blooming around his eye, then the gauze covering his seven stitches, then a bigger bruise by the height of his cheekbone. " And I'd prefer to have them with you, but if you don't want mine, then I guess I'll have to go find someon—"

"Hey, I never said I didn't want babies." Restrains her from rising, hands on her sides. Loll in grooves of her ribs as she chuckles at his immediate worry. "Especially ours. I just expressed I wasn't particularly fond of having them right now."

"Well neither do I." Yanks on the collar of his shirt with raised eyebrows and a sarcastic grin. "But then a condom broke and we might have made one, so I had to consider it an option."

"You're scared."

"Terrified."

"Me too, but if it's in there—" Flattens his hand to her stomach. Doesn't wrench it away. Remembers it swaying before him yesterday. Enticing him with smooth skin and the even rhythm of her breaths. "I want this fucking baby."

Draws his face to hers. Lips reconnect. Mingle in her honey sweetness. The familiarity that's always been with him. Will always be with him. Her tongue dabbing the bruise on his lower lip. Pressure and exertion accelerating as her tongue slips into his mouth, body undulating into his. He withdraws, a modern miracle because his hand is just shy of covering her breast and the beautiful handpicked bra he bought. "I don't have any more condoms."

"Are you kidding me? After this, I'm never having sex with you again."

"This has been the best twenty-four hours of my life."

Chuckles and kisses him one final time before stretching out along the disheveled couch. He mirrors her pose, lies behind her. Lets her use his arm as a pillow, the other falls over her chest. Plays with the lace trim on her blouse. "Once the door gets fixed, and you redo the front room—"

"Of course."

"I want you to move in. Permanently." Shifts sideways, hand tugging on his collar again. "Sell this shack to Natalie and let her bomb it." Huddles against his chest. Arm closes around her waist, chin resting against her shoulder. Fingers absently twirling a strand of her hair. "We can switch the hydro bill to your name and you won't have to get up early to go to the bank."

"After I move in." Her arms loop his neck, face burying in his shirt. He strokes her back, evoking shivers from her. Not used to air conditioning. "And we find out you're not pregnant and this was just a weird occurrence of planets and tides or something." Hugs her tighter to him. Hand rubbing her arm trying to spark heat. Fingers stray to her left temple. Massage gently as he continues, "I want to marry you."

"You know, if you ever once took the time to ask me properly, I'd probably say yes."

* * *

_A/N#2:  
1. Each chapter is COMPLETELY unconnected. But will involve the general plot of a break-in, a hospital scene and an apartment scene. The differences will be which characters are where when what happens. Of course POVs and situations are apt to change with chapter.  
2. Once a chapter is done. It is done. There is no contination. So Chapter 2 will not continue in Chapter 3 nor will it continue in a oneshot.  
3. The next two chapters will also be M. Your welcome or I'm sorr_y.  
_4. There may be a maybe baby_


	3. Six Years

_A/N: Hey Guys, good news and bad news. The good news is this chapter is huge so let's all rejoice. I suggest you savor it in small appetizing portions because here's the bad news: everything is on permanent hiatus until I find out how busy my student life is gonna be. For a further explanation please see my profile.  
M-rated, just like the story.  
Other than that, I just want to say thank you to all who read faithfully during my little stint of fanfic writing. And of course to everyone who reviewed and alerted and favorited and blah blah blah. I'm glad you enjoyed the stories.  
I leave you now with the reverse of Illegitimate._

_That's what could've happened, but how about this?_

One Shiny Guinea

Chapter 3

Six Years

The door swings open. Movement stunting because the corner hits her foot before she pounces back. She's unseen behind carved and catered wood, just the pads of tiny fingers clamping around the bulbous doorknob. He helps her steady the shuddering slab, gives it a shove because the handle is level with her head. She has her mother's height.

When he steps inside the house, musty with the July heat, her tiny body is clipped to the back of the door like a Christmas decoration. Caramel hair collected in a thick ponytail, the end flipping out. Pale arms straining against the dark mahogany. She's wearing a tiny purple tank top patterned with yellow sunflowers and a pair of jeans that end halfway down her shins, the same sunflowers embroidered in the denim.

She tries to close the door with same method used to move giant slabs of limestone across the desert. Head bowed to her bare feet. The mat clusters under the rim, hinders the already difficult task as it bundles and stutters across the hardwood floor. Subtly sticks his hand to the top of the frame, jabs it once when she rams into it and it closes. She tucks some longer bangs behind her ear, hands fall to her hips and she shakes her head as she sighs at the difficult door. She and the door should star in a sitcom. He'd always watch.

"Daddy." Grins and hugs his leg. Missed it. The contact with her. Finger fans out her bangs disheveled from the battle. She rests the tip of her chin at his thigh. A bit small for her age, the doctor told him last time he was privileged enough to be at a visit. A goddamn doctor's visit is a privilege. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." Holds underneath her scrawny arm and lifts her into his. Gathers her against his chest and grins as she strangles him in a hug, tiny face nuzzling his cheek. Tiny heart beating underneath his hand. Adjusts her ponytail, hair longer than two months ago. Two months. "We're going to have fun this weekend. We'll do whatever you want."

"I drew you a picture." Dark blue eyes sparkle, hands press against his chest and she beams. Can't contain her excitement. He's surprised he got through the door without the picture being thrust into his hand. The thing is, he wants it. Wants to frame it. To put it on his fridge which is already a veritable collage of her baby pictures and drawings. Or in his locker, a smaller, more cramped collage.

"You did?" Toes off his sandals. Arms still full of his daughter because two months is too damn long to go without seeing her. Without being able to hold her. It's bad enough he can't see her every day, especially at her age when something new happens every day. Was worse when she was a baby. Something new happened every hour and he missed most of it.

Nods, lips pursing together as she leans her body forward. Arm relaxing around his neck, his fingers floating to hold hers. She points with her spare hand towards the coffee table. "Over there."

The house is still ever her house. Baby or no baby. Daughter or no daughter. Boyfriend or no boyfriend. The only difference, aside from their daughter, are the few wicker toy boxes bordering under the front window. Everything gets played with and then put away. If it doesn't it disappears. He has toys littering the main room of his apartment from two months ago. She's the stricter one. Can't be strict when he only sees her on the weekend, supposed to have her weekends.

Steps between the couches, quilt folded across the back in perfection. Throw pillows set at definite angles. But on the coffee table among the novel and the TV remote is a crayon colored picture. It's a gray swirl, with gray extremities set on a green field with brown forks and a yellow dab in the background. It's an abstract mess and it makes him smile, because it's obviously an elephant. "That is a perfect elephant."

Claps her hands and hugs his neck while he still stares at the gray blob. That could be a trunk and those might be ears, but they might be the seventh and eighth legs. Plump lips fall straight in mourning as she points a finger to the trunk. "Steve said it was an airplane."

That's because Steve's an asshole. One who doesn't deserve to be in this house or in their lives. Wishes his daughter didn't have to put up with him. Didn't have to wake up with him there. Somehow he gets to be present for things he has no right to. Gets to have supper with her every single night. On what planet is that considered fair. "That's because Steve is stupid."

She giggles and rests her head against his shoulder. Steve bashing is something he's sure they'll enjoy for years to come. Jules always gives him shit, tells him not to badmouth her boyfriend in front of their daughter, but he can't help it. The guy tries to replace him when he still exists and does a half-assed job at it. All he can hope for is that she's on his side during her rebellious teenage phase.

Kisses her forehead and fixes her bangs again because there's a small part in them. "It's the best elephant I've ever seen."

"Talia?" Jules bounds down the stairs. Bare feet shrouded under the billow of a dress, but their rhythmic slap echoes through the room. "Talia?"

"Take it easy, she's with me." Stands from crouching by the coffee table, Talia's legs swinging off his lap as he examined her picture.

"Jesus." Holds a hand to her flushing chest peeking out from a wine hued strapless dress. Pale expanse of a collarbone and the perfect hint of cleavage. Hair twisted up in a bun, fountain of free wisps hiding the clip. Calms at their daughter in his arms, but then her brows grow course. "What have I told you about opening the door?"

"Relax Jules, it was just me."

"Yeah, until one day it's not. Until one day she says 'Daddy' and a guy who wants into the house answers 'yes'."

Talia sags in his arms. Face turns into his neck in humiliation. Feels the heat from her flushed cheek against his skin and he bumps her once with his arm. "Oh Tally, it's not your fault." Glares at Jules while rubs her back, flips her ponytail.

"Oh Baby, Mommy's not angry at you." Both move towards each other; meet on the frayed edge of the area rug. Jules curls close to his side, long neck bare and the color of ivory. Chest absolutely flawless as she caresses the back of Talia's buried head. Smells her aroma, her scent, the perfume which adheres to his skin. Licks his lips inadvertently at the sight of painted red lips, the slender fingers coaxing their daughter from hiding. "I—we just don't want anything to happen to you."

So distracted by the strands of hair tickling her neck, the shadows of strands, he doesn't notice his cue and gets an elbow in the ribs for it. "That's right; Mommy and Daddy love you very much. We don't want you to get hurt."

"So?—" Jules stares at him holding her arms out in an empty gesture. Like they're playing charades and he's supposed to guess what she wants him to do next. It's basically how they co-parent.

"So?—" Talia stares up at him. Ocean blue eyes misty from near tears caused by something that wasn't her fault. She was just as excited to see him as he was to see her. They've both taught her about strangers. About the bad people in the world. Taught her from the youngest age possible. Because they've seen everything.

"So what should she do, Sam?"

"Oh, wait for Mommy to open the door." Talia nods at his words of wisdom and Jules kisses the back of her head. Turns away, attention moving to the bag and stuffed elephant their daughter's bringing for the weekend. Hips swivel tightly within the dress.

Presses his lips against Talia's temple and kisses her gently. Feels the muscles run slack as she closes her eyes. "Or maybe Steve should remember that we don't live in Medicine Hat and to lock the front door."

Talia giggles, the high pitch chortle of a Kindergartener. Probably doesn't understand the joke, definitely doesn't understand the entire joke. Just knows that they hate Steve. It's like having his own sidekick and he loves it.

"Sam." It's distinct first and last warning. Voice stern and short, eyes slits as she glances over bare shoulders from the purple cartoon character adorned bag. Her back curves as she bends her knees, skirt of the dress willowing around her feet.

"You look nice." Leans against the back of the couch and uses her probable triple check of the bag as a reason to triple check her out.

"Mommy's going to a party." Talia explains, fingers tapping against his t-shirt, then alternate to tracing the design on the front. His little sidekick.

"A party?"

Jules shrugs, uncomfortable with the whole idea. The dress, the hairdo, the makeup, the shoes she'll be forced to wear to make her at least three inches taller, the idea of him taking their daughter for a weekend. "Some charity thing downtown. Steve's getting honorable mention."

Wants to say a slew of inappropriate names for the awards Steve should be getting. Name the fucking award banquet after Steve. The guy who moved in on his family before the pot had a chance to cool. Hopes he got burned. "Isn't that great for Steve."

"Sam," sighs his name. Not in the angry tone she usually reserves for it. More downtrodden. Fingers massage her forehead as her eyelid flutters. "We're probably not going to be out for that long tonight. I've been fighting a bad headache all day, so if you need—"

"We'll be fine Jules."

"I'm just letting you know we'll be home."

"And I'm just letting you know that I can take care of our—"

"Hey is that Sam?" Steve's voice shatters their fight, which is ironic considering he's usually the reason for all their fights. Wouldn't have a problem seeing their daughter, his daughter, if it wasn't for Jules' boyfriend. What complicates the situation more is Steve's need to be completely complacent when he gets infuriated. When he raises his voice to him, or tries to discuss things with him, Steve just agrees. Like he's already won.

Doesn't respond. Just glares at Jules, because she's the one who's dragging him through this. Who forces Talia to live with Steve. Who cuts short their visits. But he can't hold the grudge against her. It's both their fault. He didn't want a baby, didn't want a concrete family, didn't want a commitment. This is what he got instead. A baby girl who he only gets to see three dozen times a year, and an ex-girlfriend he—he yearns to be more amicable with. Has to sit by and watch Steve own it all.

"Yeah it's me," mumbles it. Just holds Talia, wishes they could just leave. Grab the bags and leave because this is cutting into their weekend. Remembers so clearly the Sunday in March Jules came to pick her up. Asked if he had a second to chat. Thought something was wrong. Thought something had happened to someone at the SRU. Thought she was going to say what he'd been thinking since Talia was born. That it wasn't working, that they were better together. That it was stupid to do this to themselves and their daughter. Instead she said she'd met someone. They were dating. A year later Steve moved in. Four months later and—

"Well hey Sam." Steve's hand slides down the banister, surveys the living room like a king over his land. Smiles at Talia who does nothing in return, and then links an arm around Jules' waist. "Did you tell him yet?"

"Tell me what?"

"Let's go in the kitch—"

"Can this wait until Sunday? Because you're kind of cutting into my weekend with our daughter."

Her plump lips purse in pain from his words. Eyes angle towards the floor and she blinks once. Hand rubs at the back of her neck where tangles of hair tap her skin. "Please, it's important."

"Fine. Five minutes."

"Come on, Kiddo." Steve lunges forward to remove his daughter from his arms. Simultaneously they both flinch back. His arms come up to protect her. Her head ducks down against his neck.

"No. I want to stay with Daddy."

"Your parents need to have a little talk." Steve, face adorned with the biggest grin in the county merely stands a foot away. "We should check your bags, make sure you have everything. Like your elephant."

Talia tilts her head at him because the almost five-year-old knows, and can clearly see the elephant slumped on top of her purple weekend bag. Uses the same glare he gives, inherited from a young age. It questions intelligence and demeans. He's never been prouder.

"Talia, Mommy needs to talk to Daddy." Jules kisses their daughter on the forehead. Her hands holding her plump cheeks, continues speaking with a fakest grin he's ever seen. "Go to the bathroom and make sure there's nothing else you want to take."

Reluctantly, Talia nods. Reluctantly, he releases his daughter, the most perfect thing ever created. Bounces clear of Steve, ponytail propelling, legs pumping as she swerves around him and slams the door to the half-bath under the stairs.

Follows Jules into the kitchen to find the fridge another collage. No baby pictures, those are framed and on the wall or expertly pasted into an album. But there's at least a dozen crayon drawings on the fridge. One definitely of a crocodile, maybe an alligator. Wonders if Talia knows the difference. Should take her to the zoo this weekend and teach her.

"So what's so—"

"Steve got offered a promotion. That's what this party downtown is for."

"Great. Great for Steve." Wants to yell to the bastard obviously eavesdropping on their conversation from where he's perched on the arm of the living room sofa. They can all celebrate what an amazingly fantastic human being Steve is.

"Sam," Voice is so tried, so fatigued and pressed. Sifted and distorted by feelings, by emotions, by conflictions, by fights, by the pain of a headache. "The promotion is in Ottawa."

Shakes his head. Jaw locked, ignoring the nauseous clashing in his stomach coupling with insurmountable rage. "No. No—"

"We're flying out tomorrow morning to look at hous—"

"No Jules. No." Paces around the kitchen quarantined between the island and the rest of the counter. Fingers flit around, tremble in the air, then to wash over his mouth and cradle his chin.

"Sam, you knew this was going to—"

"You can do whatever the fuck you want. I don't give a shit about you. But that is my daughter, and you're not taking her away from me." Won't sit by while she grows up without him. Won't see her once or twice a year and be amazed at what a young woman she's grown into. Listen to her tell stories about things he should've been there for.

"You hardly see her now."

"You won't let me see her. I was supposed to have weekends, then you wanted them. Then you wanted weekdays. I phone and I phone and you won't let me see her."

"She needs stabili—"

"She needs her goddamn parents, Jules. Both of them. Mother and father. Not mother and replacement." Gets hit with the image of Talia crying for him and him being in a different city. Five hours away instead of downtown traffic away. Instead of a car ride away.

"You'll still get to see her holidays."

Hands crash down on the counter. Fingers blanch; dry of pigment from fury. Trying to keep his temper in reins because he knows Talia's in the other room, waiting to go home with him, waiting to have a fun weekend after not seeing him for two months. Two months of him phoning and leaving messages everyday begging to see his daughter. "You do this Jules, and I'll sue you for custody."

"Sam—"

Doesn't have the support system she has. Doesn't have a solid stupid asshole for a partner. Doesn't have the same job flexibility since she's on part-time and been shuffled to Team Three. "I'll change shifts, give up being Team Leader, I'll get a completely different job. There is nothing that I wouldn't sacrifice for my little girl and you can't seem to understand that."

"You're overre—"

"I'm done." Waves her off, won't even look at her. For the first time in their six year disfigured relationship he fully blames her for something. Knows she doesn't want to move to Ottawa, but she remains silent on the subject and their daughter hurts for it.

"Sam, it's not going to be as bad as you think." Steve trails him from behind the safety of the couch. Bastard should. He wants to punch him. He has no right. Absolutely no right. Understands he can take Jules, something he's not fond of, but there's no way they're separating him from Talia.

"Daddy?" Tips her head up from where she's collapsed beside her purple bag, elephant ears folded in her hand, white sandals strapped to her feet unevenly done in her style because she probably didn't want Steve to help her.

"Come on, Tally." Grabs her, the elephant, and the bag in one swoop of his arm. Jules always bitches at him not to carry her everywhere. She's old enough and can use her own two legs to walk. He's carried her since she was a newborn. Never once used a stroller, only used a car seat, well in the car. Holds her because one time he didn't. Thought of himself first and the result broke his heart. Holds her because one day he won't be able to, thought it would be because she would be too big, not because she would be in Ottawa.

Slips his sandals on his feet, feels the pull of Jules behind him. Following him. Knows she's talking and his defense mechanism functions by blocking out every single word she's speaking because he's had enough of her shit today. Opens the door and just before he slams it behind him declares, "Have fun in Ottawa."

* * *

"Do you want some cookies?" Tries to read the grocery list. It's in his own writing. It has to be in his own writing. He wrote it, remembers jotting it down while gulping the leftover coffee from the pot before he ran out of the apartment. The first thing is bread. It might be eggs. It might be a mixture of both. Might as well get both.

Sets her in the front of the shopping cart. Legs swinging in excitement, head checking over her shoulder as his hand steadies her foot and fixes the clasp on the side of her sandal. "Can we make them? I like mixing."

His fingers ring around the handle of the cart. "I don't know, Tally. Daddy doesn't know how to make—" Her hands fall on top. Find the grooves between his knuckles. He doesn't even own anything pans that go in the oven. "We'll see what they have."

Unfurls a plastic bag and lets her hold it while he drops some oranges in. Told her to hold it tight once because if she didn't the fruit would fall to the ground. She nodded, he dropped the fruit in and the bag hit the ground. She glanced at him with a twitching, pouting lip and he had to spend five minutes reassuring her he wasn't angry and the fruit was okay. Now every time she braces herself, teeth mash and eyes squint.

Holds her hands as he shows her how to knot it. Sort of knows how to knot. Jules swears she does. Says she forgets to around him. Maybe she just wants him to teach her the proper way. The non-Steve way. Tongue peeks from her mouth as she ties the bag. Contains more air than oranges. After grabbing bananas and apples, they move to the bread.

"Why don't you have a Steve?" Plush elephant sits in her lap and her fingers fold the seam of its ear. Glances up with big, inquisitive eyes when he doesn't answer.

"Why don't I have a what?" Curbs the cart by the giant wall of bread. Endless loaves of bread as far as the eye can see. Her feet flex, toes aim to the floor, and then settle.

"A Steve. Someone to yell at you like Mommy does with Steve when you're not around." Bends the elephant's trunk, tips it forward then back. Waddles it's feet along the handle.

"Well Daddy likes women." Pushes the cart forward a few inches. Can't really blame her for that one. Hasn't ever let any of the women he's been with meet her, because none of them have been that serious. Licks his bottom lip, a little distracted by the mention of household arguments. Excites him a little to know Steve's getting a good verbal sassing. To know everything isn't perfect. His little sidekick.

"Then why don't you have a girl Steve?"

"It's—It's complicated Talia. Daddy works a lot." Suddenly it's like talking to his mom long-distance from Vancouver. How's my granddaughter? How are things at work? Seeing anyone special? Sam, you can't just wait around for her forever.

"Oh. Okay. I thought you loved Mommy."

"I do love your Mommy, just—" Sighs, hand shading his eyes as he grabs a soft loaf of bread. Has to tell Jules not to leave the TV on. Not to let her watch daytime talk shows or wherever she's getting basic psychological inclinations from. "Me and Mommy are friends. I love Mommy like a friend."

And it's bullshit. Complete bullshit that sets off his lie alarms as he speaks it, and probably Talia's too, but she doesn't say anything. Patronizes him in her tap of his hand and nod of her head. "Okay."

Manages to grab a few more things without anymore Steve or familial relationship conversations sparking. But as they reach the refrigerated section for eggs she states. "Taylor wants to be my Steve."

"What?" Grabs the carton of eggs and watches her cuddle the elephant for warmth.

"A boy at scho—"

"What's his last nam—no—no—you—stay, stay away from him." Shakes the eggs at her a few times before he catches his warped reflection in an overhead mirrored bubble at the warehouse doors. Exhales and puts the eggs in the larger part of the cart. "Just—just—just don't touch Taylor. Stay away from Taylor and if he touches you, tell your teac—tell me. You tell me. Stay away from Taylor. Taylor has cooties."

"That's what I said." Giggles, pointing to her boney chest. Elephant still caught in a chokehold.

"Good." Kisses her forehead and grasps her cold hand. Skims his thumb over her fingers as he turns the corner looking for milk and a check out. Surprised that went to well. Might use that in ten years after her first boyfriend. Just replace cooties with herpes. "What kind of a name is Taylor anyway?"

"Can we get ice cream instead of cookies?" Head cranes around exploring the aisle while he retrieves a carton of milk.

"Yeah, sure." Little relieved she would rather have ice cream. Would've gotten her both. Then again, Sunday night when he drops her off he doesn't need get reprimanded from Jules because she feeds their daughter fruit as a snack and he feeds her candy. "What kind?"

"The kind from the restaurant."

"I wasn't at the restaurant, Sweetie."

"Oh, umm." Purses her lips, furrows her brows and crosses her arms in such deep thought. Hand parks at her chin as she ponders aloud, "It had candy in it. And they had colors."

"Smarties." His daughter doesn't know what Smarties are. He's taking her out for Halloween this year. He's demanding to take her out. He'll buy the costume. He'll dress up with her and they'll get every single candy on the planet, eat them all and both call in sick the next day.

Finds a carton buried in the open freezer and digs it out. Wiping the frost of the side, he shows her the picture. "Yes." Taps a finger at the side. "This one. Can we get it?"

"Of course." Forgets Steve is lactose intolerant and that milk and milk products are a myth in that house. No wonder she's so short for her age. Her tiny bones are craving calcium and that jackass is solely denying it to her.

Maybe for her birthday he'll get her an ice cream cake. Watch Steve vomit as they celebrate. It's the gift that keeps on giving really. Pushes the cart out of the aisle and into the normally air conditioned store. Rubs his hands up and down her bare shoulders to warm her. "Your birthday's coming up soon? Do you know what you want?"

She grins. An all knowing grin. The kind of grins evil geniuses use after trapping the hero, stroking a cat and revealing their plan. The kind of grin where her little hands should be steepling together and a deep maniacal laugh escaping her throat. But she only grins and nods her head.

"So what do you want?"

"I want a baby brother."

Screeches the cart to a halt in the middle of the grocery store. Lets disgruntled customers and employees plow their way around him in the mid-Friday pre-weekend rush. "A what?"

"A baby brother. Or sister. But brother more."

"Tally," exhales sharply shaking his head. This grocery trip has been one with his therapist, his mother and teenage daughter all wrapped up in the body of his near five-year-old. "Daddy loves you very much, but that's not happening."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have a girl Steve for one." Pulls up at the end of a line. Separates his items with a blocker and then starts putting the frozen things on first. "You'd have better luck asking Mommy and Ste—Don't. Do not ask Mommy and Steve. Have you asked Mommy and Steve?"

Deep blue eyes wide, full lips gapping to allow her silent shock at his sudden interruption of himself. Sits still but shakes her head. Ponytail sways.

"Good. Do Daddy a big favor and don't ask them that." Couldn't handle them having a baby. Thought he couldn't handle having a baby, a daughter and then Talia was born and he didn't know how he ever took a breath without her. Knows he won't be able to function with the addition of a Steve spawn. Son of Steve lurking around the house. And then of course when he comes to pick up Talia they'd make him take Steve freaking Jr. too even though he has no parental ties to the kid because he's nothing but a babysitter to them. "Especially Steve. Don't talk to Steve. He has cooties too."

"That's what I said." Talia juts a thumb to her chest again. Eyebrows raised and expression a little cheeky. She's just beginning to understand the concept of jokes. She's hilarious, funnier than all the guys on Team One. More intelligent than them to. Has no kids to hang around with, only adults who psychologically profile people for a living. Wishes he could give her a sibling so she could be a kid with someone.

Chuckles at her, holds her cheek and kisses the crown of her head. Remembers when she was little. Is still little. Remembers when she was younger. Used to play games with her on the couch. Watch her inch forward on her bum from his peripherals and turn slowly. She'd chuckle deeply and bounce, hair short in medium brown curls. Would sit on his lap and have breakfast together. Pick at his cereal. Never had a highchair. Never needed one. "I love you, Tally."

"Love you too, Daddy."

"Aww, is this your daughter?" Cashier, a good five years younger than him has starry eyes over the cuteness of their situation. It happens a lot when they go out together. Women mooning over Talia. Over him. Over them together and the lack of a maternal figure. The thing is he doesn't want any of them, especially when he's with Talia. He doesn't want any of them because they're not the one woman he does want.

Roots around in his back pocket for his wallet and pushes Talia and the cart through to the end of the checkout. "Yeah."

The cashier scans the last item, then leans forward on the metal ledge. The buttons on her generic green polo shirt buttoned down, offering up a lot. "She's so cute."

"How much?"

"What?

"The groceries?"

"Oh sorry."

Finally gets the total out of her and hands her a wad of bills. Feels Talia's cheek press into his arm. Thinks she's hugging, his hand fixing her bangs again, but she leans forward to address the cashier. "He doesn't have a Steve and I really want a baby brother for my birthday."

"Talia." Growls it at her as he grabs his handful of change.

"You're not at work."

Storms out of the store. Molars grind molars as the cart dips from the curve of pavement onto the asphalt of parking lot. Talia sits staring up at him, eyebrows crashing into slants of concern. "Are you mad?"

"I'm not—"

"Don't be mad, Daddy." Hand clasps around his wrist tightly like he's going to shove the cart across the parking lot with her in it and leave. "I'm sorry."

Stops at the back of his SUV, rear lights flash red as he pops the trunk. "I'm not mad. It's just; people should have babies with someone they really love."

"So you do love Mommy?"

Sighs and rests his nose against hers. Her hand touches his cheek as she rubs her nose to his.

In his back pocket, his cell phone rings. Illuminates in the twilight of the parking lot. The sky's swirls of tangerines and flamingo pinks. "This is probably your mother telling me she's home." Or checking in because he left in a rampage. They want to take his daughter away.

Cradles the phone, cheek to shoulder, as he lifts two plastic bags to the trunk of his car. The rustling might be useful, could tell her it's static interference, and then smash his phone so she'll give him at least two hours alone with their daughter. "Our daughter's fine, Jules."

"Mr. Braddock?"

"What?" Doesn't recognize the nasally female voice on the other end of the line. Shifts his shoulder to adjust the speaker as he yanks two more bags out of the cart and shoves them into the back of the car.

"Samuel Braddock?"

"Yeah?" Slams the trunk door shut. Probably a telemarketer. Should just hang up. If it was important they would call back. But something tells him not to hang up. Glances to Talia blowing her cheeks up making trumpeting sounds at her elephant, and something tells him not to hang up.

"I'm Martha Gallant a nurse in the North York General emergency room. You're listed as the emergency contact for a Ms. Julianna Callighan and—"

"What happened?" Hand claps to the side of his face, staples the phone there. The other inadvertently clamps down on the side of the cart, quaking it. Talia stops playing and stares up at him. "Is she okay?"

"There's been a situation and she requested we call you."

* * *

Fully dark now, downtown traffic bustles past them, not caring what emergency they're going to deal with. Parked the car in a lot across the street, unbuckled Talia and rushed across the street. Strides quickly up the concrete slope to the automated emergency room doors. Crushes her hand in his as he barrels into the hospital. Her short legs pump to keep up, turn from a jog into a run. "Is Mommy going to be okay?"

"Talia, I don't know." Keeps asking him. Seeking a reassurance he can't give. Can't promise her that Jules will be fine because if he gets here and hears the worse string of words, he's lied to their daughter, and she'll remember it. She'll remember he said everything would be fine and he lied. "I don't know."

Finds the triage desk pillowed behind layers of bullet proof glass. Curly haired, middle-aged nurse flipping through files. Lady on the phone told him to go to the triage desk. Wouldn't tell him what was wrong with Jules, just to go to the triage desk and ask to see her. Speed increases as blurs of waiting room seats, some empty, some occupied, zip past him. Like if one single person cuts in front of him he's liable to bring down the hospital.

Hands slam against the edge of the counter as he braces himself. The older woman looks up, half upset at his presence, half upset he hasn't already told her what he needs. Then he notices he feels unburdened, feels a little lighter than usual. Both of his hands are on the counter. One was meant to be—

Swings around and only finds the glare of industrial lighting against the freshly buffered floors. Scattered people filling seats. Someone with a broken arm. A drunk leaning to one side. A woman holding a baby. But his daughter—

"Talia."

"Daddy."

Hand yanks on the hem of his shirt. Stands perfectly fine, perfectly still beside him. Elephant by the ear in one hand, his shirt in the other. Chest heaving a little from having to run to catch him.

"Don't let go of my hand."

"But you—"

"No. No, Talia." Wags a finger at her, hand cementing her in place by the shoulder. Voice a stern whisper as he looms over her. "When we're out you can't just run around. You could get lost. Someone could take you. I'm already dealing with what happened—"

"You went too fast." Drops the clump of shirt material in her hand. Shuffles back on her feet, wrenching her shoulder from his hand. Face growing flushed and blue eyes shimmering. Chokes the elephant with both hands, brings its head to her mouth sobbing, eyes flooding with tears darkening the top of its head. "I couldn't keep up. You went too fast."

Crouches so he's level with her, no longer casting a shadow over her. Holds his hand out to her, but she flattens herself against the front of the desk. "Sweetie—"

"I'm scared. I don't like it here." Shakes her head. Face hidden by the elephant. Bland bead eyes staring at him. Shoulders convulse as she cries, "I'm scared, Daddy."

"Come here." Fingers graze her side. Feel the overpowering accordion of her lungs and her ribs. Lunges at his open arms, white sandaled feet dangle. Scoops a hand underneath her bottom and cradles her head to his shoulder. Has nightmares, has had them since she was old enough to recognize what they were. Always ends up walking around with her, talking her down from the fantastical dreamscape.

Sniffles against his neck. Calm and quiet. Pretends like nothing happens. It's how she acts. How they both do, her and Jules. It's so eerily similar that it leaves him with the bittersweet memories of caring for Jules during her recovery. Helping her body heal a channel through her chest. The nightmares she had from medications, from pain. How she was finally cleared to start retraining for the team, which meant physical activities, which meant sex. How their very first time in three months the condom broke and they got a daughter. A daughter he thought would mean the end of his life, but became his life.

"I will never let anything happen to you." Echoes his very first words to her. From Jules, to her chest, after some crying he cut the cord. The doctors cleaned her up. Jules held her. Then while they took care of Jules, he got to hold her. Touched his nose to hers and promised her.

Nods as he rubs her back, because she believes him. She should. He'll go down kicking and screaming, in bullets and bombs before a single hair on her head is harmed.

"Can I help you?" Nurse asks, pen bouncing off the desk top on the other side of the glass. Her cheek lumps against a balled fist.

"I'm Sam Braddock. I'm the emergency contact for Julianna Callaghan. They told me—"

"Yes, Mr. Braddock, come on back." There's a buzz, a whoosh, something straight out of science fiction movies as the door locks free. "I'm Martha, the nurse who contacted you."

Holds a hand to Talia's back as he darts through the door. Becomes part of the swiftly moving emergency room. Steps back as someone rolls a gurney by with a badly burned man upon it. Might let his hand press a little harder. "What's going on? Is she okay?"

"Erin?" Nurse beckons with her hand as a younger, skinner woman approaches. Straight red hair and a frail smile. Everything about her appears malnourished. Like a houseplant that hasn't seen direct sunlight in days. "Erin is a social worker; she's going to take your daughter to the family room."

"My daughter is going to stay with me."

"Mr. Braddock." The social worker steps forward, a clipboard in hand. The idea makes him nervous. Like they're doing a checkup on his parenting skills, like this could be used against him in the future. Definitely doesn't want to abandon Talia in a place she's expressed fear of. "It might be a good idea to go talk to Ms. Callaghan, and then ease your daughter in on the situation."

"What situation?"

"Ms. Callaghan sustained injuries to her face. Bruises, a black eye, a fat lip. There's a cut that requires sutures. There's blood. It's not exactly something you'd want your daughter to be exposed to."

"I'm not leaving my daughter alone."

"I'll stay with her the entire—"

"How long is this going to take?"

The nurse's round, deep eyes meet his, unsurprised by his reaction, by his anger, by his fear. Clacks her fingernails once against the chart. "We just have to do the sutures. But every time we try to she becomes agitated."

"How long?"

"An hour at the most."

Groans because he actually has to make the choice. Actually has to choose between. But won't. Can't. Still can't. Has to. "Talia." Nudges her off his shoulder and floats her towards the ground. Hears the magical click of her shoes hitting the floor. Holds her steadily by the waist, frame of her body hidden underneath the flow of her shirt. Hair more than tousled from emotions. "Daddy needs to go help Mommy."

"I want to come." Pushes forward, hand touches his knee. Elephant thrown into his lap as she expects to be whisked into his arms again.

"You can't, Sweetie."

"Why not?" Voice cracks, heartbroken. Talia doesn't throw fits. She doesn't throw tantrums. For a single child of a split household she doesn't make demands. She's not spoiled. She doesn't yell, or scream, or cry for things when she doesn't receive them. But she's always been loved. Always been able to see him or Jules when she asks. Craves love over attention, over material things. Which is why Ottawa won't work.

Fingers fold into the wrinkles in his jeans. Saucer eyes stare at him, like he's about to abandon her. He is, not permanently, not by choice. "Mommy's hurt and Daddy has to go help her."

"I want to help."

"You can. You can, Sweetheart." Clicks the clasp of his watch and shakes it off his hand. Runs a thumb over the gouges in the connecting links. "Me and Mommy need to help her, but we need to make sure you're safe. So Erin is going to take you to a play room for a little bit."

"Like school?"

"Like school. There's going to be toys there, and she's going to be with you the whole time." Talia glances slowly to the social worker who nods her head in agreement. He takes her hand in his, and slips his watch into her palm. Shows the face of it to her. "See the little hand? When the little hand is on the nine, Daddy will be back."

Brings the watch close to her eyes, peering at the numbers, the hands. He points out the smaller hand at the eight for her. Her lips pout for a brief second, but she nods. Bangs sway, and the elephant fused to her side. "Okay."

"I know it's scary, Talia." Tips her chin up, finds the same wide blue eyes. Full of fear, full of hesitancy. "But Daddy wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

Nods again. More self confidant with a purse instead of a pout. "You're going to help Mommy."

"Yes."

"You'll be back at the nine?"

"Yes."

"Then we can all go home?"

"Yes." Doesn't know about that. Where Jules will go, where Steve is. What actually happened to put her in the hospital. But he has an hour to deal with all that. Kisses the crown of her head and watches her grasp lightly onto the red-head's hand as she leads her in the opposite direction down the hallway. She checks over her shoulder, glances at him as the crowd swallows her up.

When he's positive he can't see her, he spins back to the nurse. "Where is she?"

"Exam Room 3." Gives a weak nod of her head and starts surprisingly fast gait for a very stocky body.

"What happened to her?"

"I'm not legally allowed to divulge any details. You'll have to get that information from Ms. Callaghan."

"Is she in pain?"

"Not enough to allow us to treat her." Stops her clean tennis shoes before a door. Horizontal blinds are pulled tight and his stomach clenches like someone kicked him. "She's agitated. Try not to make her angrier."

"Yeah." Isn't even listening anymore. They've know her for a few hours at most. He's know her for almost six years. He knows how to make her angry at the flick of a light switch. Knows how to disappoint her quicker than that. Told him she was pregnant and he left for a month.

Opens the door, and finds her still clad in a wine evening gown drooping to the middle of her back. The lighting in the room casts a shadow across the columns in her spine curving forward as she's rests her elbows on her knees. On her right shoulder there's spatter of what looks to be paint, what he knows is blood.

"Jules?"

Body pinches straight and she wrenches to the side. "Sam? Is Talia—She shouldn't—"

"No. No." Shuts the door behind him, the blinds flutter as he approaches her on the far side of the bed. "She's here, she's with a nurse. I told her I had to help you."

"I'm fine." Hand cups over the injured portion of her face. Can only distinguish fractions of damage. Fat lip protruding like a rip strawberry. The blacks, reds and violets blushing from under her fingers' cover like a field of pansies.

Knuckles knock the gurney baseboard as his hands swing in awkward passivity. Doesn't know how to approach her. What she's comfortable with. Knows how he feels around her, but not how she feels around him. "Then why are you in a hospital?"

"You a doctor now?" Blood in dollops and blows varnish her chest. Over her smooth collarbone. Over the perfect amount of cleavage now sinking in a dress beginning to rot away from her body like the shed skin of a snake.

Wants to remind her, she called him. She was the one who, once again, interrupted his weekend with their daughter to drag him into her shit. But her eye, the one unguarded, imitates Talia's. Saucer big in emotion. In hidden innocence. In terror. Doesn't respond to her quip. Sits at the end of the gurney, far enough away so if anything did happen she would still feel comfortable. "What happened?"

Shifts beside him, not uncomfortable at his presence because she's closer to him, feels the lack of warmth from her exposed skin. Maybe the question agonizes. Arm falls from her face, a maple key in the wind. The action stunts for a second like she disagreed with the nature of it, the honesty of it, but both hands dip into the stretching material across her lap. Doesn't stare at her face. Not to birth more discomfort by gawking at her injuries. Doesn't want to see them.

Bruises lace the wrist of her right arm. Like the crest of an ocean swell eternally crashing against her skin. Eternally biting against her skin. Like something branded her. Heated five fingertips over a bonfire and stabbed them into her body. Without forethought, his left hand replaces her left hand softly stroking to serenity. Snuffing out the heated blue flames. Shocked by his own casualness. Shocked by her allowance of it. Muscles, bones and cords tender under his thumb as he questions with a softer tone, "What happened?"

Head bows forward, she swallows, ringlets from her updo still caressing her neck. "I, um. I came home—we came home early. We came home early." Eyes narrow in pain, in recollection. For the first time he glimpses the right side of her face in eclipse. The black eye engorged red with a scratch through the lid. A deeper cut on her cheek oozing molasses blood, attempting to clot and failing. The circles and flares of colors popping. "I was in the kitchen; Steve was in the living room. Someone came into the house and they shot him. They just shot him. Right in the head."

Fingers twitch, tremble chaotic. Her pupil dilates as it focuses on the privacy curtain. A horrific pallet of colors similar to those sprouting on her face. Colors in waterfalls and tendrils. In vertical wavelengths clashing at each other, violent and primordial. All he can think of is now there's no reason for her to move to Ottawa. Being shot in what Steve considered his own house, must not have been a nice way to die and he feels a surge of remorse. Maybe he should've snuffed his blatant hatred for the man who stole his family a little. But in hindsight, glad it was him and not her. She has a daughter. He lo—cares about her a hell of a lot more than he ever did Steve. Would've broken the code to save her over Steve, both of them know it, which is why they shuffled teams so much. And the bastard probably left the door unlocked.

His hand spreads over her palm. Soothes bouncing fingers. Massages the muscle branching down from her thumb until her hand wilts. Stops its hectic motions, relaxes. Four cold tips bend to consume his thumb. She's freezing. Visibly shaking from shock. Doesn't have a coat because it's humid as hell outside.

"I—um." Head turns to her lap. Silken wine material pulled tightly over the outline of two gorgeous, perfect thighs. They wiggle, shudder. Ripple wrinkles from the dip of her waist down to her knees. "I came out of the kitchen when I heard the shot, but Steve—"

"Jules—"

And she faces him directly for the first time. Blood curving, curling down the side of her face like finger paints. All over the kitchen table, the floor, the newspaper he put down, Talia's shirt and his arms and face. Somehow the page remained white. White, her eye white in shock, fear. Glazed with a layer of tears she doesn't shed because she doesn't blink. "It was clean through his temple. There was gray matter and—and—and." Skews her eye almost closed, eyebrows dive hard. The corner of her mouth droops as she sets her jaw, fingers grasp at his thumb with more strength. "I didn't even get to go to him before the guy whipped me around and shoved a gun in my face."

"What—" Brain forgets his sentence. Focuses on her body. Examines what he can without being obvious. It's hard to determine what happened without asking. Doesn't know if he has the right to. Most of her is swathed in maroon fabric, or daps of blood, or clustering bruises. But her dress sags on the right side, falls further under her arm. Fabric torn and tattered. He can't breathe. He grasps her hand because he can't breathe.

"He grabbed my wrist tight." Fingers drizzle over the bruises stamped into her skin. Sick shadows darkening the wrong squares. "Put the gun to my temple. Started dragging me towards the couch."

"I stepped on his foot and punched him." Straight bumpy line of her lips slowly raise as a reserved smile graces her face. Her eye scrolls over to him on the peripheral and she adds, "Broke his nose."

Shares her grin because he's so fucking proud. Has absolutely no right or need to be, but it's this brash feeling nestling inside of him beside his infinite relief. Steve, a guy who looms over her, is killed on an instant. She's a fraction of the size and fights back with a gun to her head. Did it for Talia, it's the same reason he's pushed himself through dire situations.

"He hit me with the butt of the gun." Points to her right eye, both somehow swollen and sunken on her face. Gash terrorizing the lid. "It hurt and—I fell. Hit me two more times, tried to get on top of me." Can't take his eyes off the disgusting colored curtain because he pictures it. Jules collapsing to the hardwood floors, by Steve's lifeless body. By the couch with the perfect quilt scarf and pillow accessories. "I kicked him in the balls and he dropped the gun. I got it, told him not to move. He did, so I shot him."

Her thigh pads against his. Has shifted closer in her recount. In his lifeless inspection of the kitsch curtain. Silk material cold, skin underneath it probably cold. "Are you okay?"

"Obviously not, I'm in the hospital."

"You know what I mean."

"I was fine with the police. Fine when they body bagged Steve. With having to go to the station tomorrow and defend myself for shooting that guy." Body droops forward. Dress peeling more from her skin. A hollow shell. Gradating shadows linger in the negative space where her skin mingles with the fabric. "But I got here, and everything hit me. The shock. The pain. The fear. Talia. I was alone and I didn't feel safe, Sam."

"You can always call me."

Shuts her eye, hand touching her left temple in passing. The action aborts and her arm falls limp into her lap. Recalls her headache, the one she'd been nursing all day, fighting all day. She slouches forward further and the cups of her dress inhale her breasts. "I didn't want—"

Fingers glide under her dipping chin. Skin isn't soft and smooth like the memories where he's laying his lips against every inch of her. It's sticky from blood and sweat. Gritty from dirt. It doesn't matter because the angle of her jaw still rests easily and perfectly in his hand. "You can always call me."

Settles her eye on his. Let's a single breath live and die before she blinks. Absorbs his compassion. Lips level and grow into a calm grin. Trust, it's something they have, have to have while sharing a daughter, but haven't shared in this intensity for almost six years. Nods into his hand, eye closing peacefully, fingers lounging at his wrist. Feels natural. Feels complete. Like he finally has the other half of his body back.

Three thumps at the door interrupt them. From him just inwardly thanking whoever, whatever, that she's okay. She survived. Sketching out every single detail of her because they haven't been this close in a long time. Not since Talia was a baby. She disengages from his thumb, near a caress bordering her lower lip. Clears her throat and sweeps a hand over her dress.

A woman allows herself into the room. Straight black hair swaying as she shuts the door. Her athletic build flanked by a caping white lab coat. She holds a clipboard at her thigh and raises an eyebrow almost in challenge. "Are we ready for sutures yet?"

It's obvious they tried at least once, probably many times, to get Jules to cooperate with them long enough to stitch her cheek. It's also obvious that Jules fought them off, was sanctioned to the back room, and requested they call him. She requested him. Hasn't requested his presence since Talia was born.

Jules doesn't answer. Knows she won't. Starts to arc forward again into a body huddle. The only time she ever gets submissive is sudden medical situations. At two months old Talia needed surgery for a noncancerous tumor in her lungs. Jules lost all mental capacity. The doctors kept asking them what they wanted to do. Leave it in and chance her growing up with a weak lung or take her to surgery. Jules just paced back and forth holding their gowned daughter like they were at a baptismal.

He said they should do it. She said she couldn't. Knew what it was like to get shot in the chest. How it felt recovering. The doctors kept saying babies are resilient and she kept saying fuck the doctors. Then encroaching their twenty-seventh hour without sleep, while Jules was breastfeeding, Talia started coughing, choking because she couldn't breathe. He told her they were getting the surgery. Jules shook her head, softly rubbed their whooping daughter's back and enlightened that if something went wrong, she didn't know if she would be able to forgive him. He answered it was a risk he was willing to take to save his daughter.

Everything turned out fine. Five hour surgery spent in the waiting room. Her jittery and glaring until they had their daughter back. But Jules, she doesn't like hospitals. Her mom died in one. She can't be relied on to make sound medical choices, which is why he's deferred to. Which is why she requested him.

"Yeah, we're ready."

The doctor wheels over a metal stand from the corner of the room. Sharp implemented tools of destruction enameled in metal and shining in the light. "And you are?"

"Sam, the emergency contact."

"Uh huh." Table light clicks on and flips forward drowning the room in an expansive bright beam. "You'll have to move to the edge of the gurney."

Jules shimmies to the side of the mattress. When he glances down her foot kicks up once, in anxiety, buried underneath the fronds of her dress. He only catches one bare toe. Shoeless. How she descended the stairs a few hours earlier to fret over Talia running out of the house.

"I have to inject the anesthetic. It's going to sting a bit." The doctor's thin fingers hold a vial to the light before she transfers its contents into a syringe. Flicks the end as a few drops bead and fastens her blue gloved hand to Jules' cheek.

His hand snakes into hers, caresses her tapping fingers. The needle plummets into her wound, eye winces closed as the clear contents pump into her face. In her hand his finger creates a horizontal line, connects it to a vertical line.

The doctor jerks the syringe from the gash. Jules laughs once, without the support of sound. Her eye shifts to him, a tear puckers and trips down her cheek. "That's a T."

"Yeah." Grins like an idiot. The doctor with a thick thread ready, is openly judging them. Rumbling her eyebrows and scoffing. "Yeah, it's a T."

Guards her hand in his as the first stitch goes in. Played the same game while she was in labor. To keep her mind of the pain, he held her hand and laced letters into her open palm with his fingers. The only letter she kept getting right was 'T' and they took it as a sign to narrow down the baby names to that letter. In all honesty he was just trying to drive her away from Margaret. From Peggy. Talia owes him.

"I know it—it's really inconsiderate of me to ask." The doctor has her battered face in a vice grip, thumb plowing in the gash as she stitches Jules' cheek like an old leather shoe. "But do you think you could keep Talia for a few extra days? Maybe until the end of the week?"

"Yeah." Perks up a little at the thought of spending more time with her. Could take her to the zoo. To the park. Try to get an extra day off during the week. Take her swimming, watch her flail around with water wings and then just settle for sprinklers. "Of course."

"I want to get the house clean and settled before she comes back." Muscles start to slacken as the solution combats the constant thresher of thread spinning at her face. "I want to get an alarm system installed before she comes back."

"I'll pay for half," huffs it as he slumps forward, elbows resting on his knees. Her hand still inadvertently a prisoner of war. When she laughs at his offer he shakes his head. Wants them to be safe. Both of them to be safe. Wants to dig a moat around the house and buy trained crocodiles. "I'm completely serious, at least let me pay for the labor wages."

Doesn't acknowledge his offer, just glances at him with an almost smile. One he thinks he remembers in the archives of his mind. From when they first dated. No before that. When it was just office flirting. "You're okay with her until Friday?"

"Oh yeah. We'll go to a Leaf's game, the bar, hit up an R-rated movie—"

"Sam."

"We'll be fine. Where are you going to stay?"

"Probably in a hotel downtown. Somewhere close in case she needs me or—"

"Why don't you come stay with us?" Doesn't realize he's still engulfing her hand in his. Holding it like a lost keepsake. She tenses at his suggestions, taking the implications in the wrong manner. Sure there are undertones. They have a child, there will always be undertones.

Slowly rescues her hand from the pit of warmth brewing between his caused by the rapid beat of his heart. Tries desperately to hide the flush gnawing at his cheeks. "Sam, I don't think that's—"

"Like you said, we'll be downtown. You can always get a room if things get to be too much." Just wants to guarantee she'll be safe. For Talia. They're a broken family yes, but she has two parents. Wants to protect the bond she and Jules have like an open flame on a windy day. For him. Because he loves her. He does. Always will. Not as a friend. Not as the mother of his daughter. As Jules, the only woman he wants.

"It's your time with her. I don't want to intrude."

"And you don't think Talia and I worrying about you holed up in some hotel room every five minutes isn't going to distract us?"

"Are you sure?" The doctor does a poor job of hiding her eye roll. Jules doesn't catch it from her bungled right eye, but he does. Like she's thinking he'll be back in here with her in nine months waiting for the safe delivery of a baby. She should be so privileged to touch his imaginary baby. And he should be so fucking lucky to touch Jules at all again, ever.

"Yeah. You can take the bedroom. I'll sleep on the couch. It'll be fun. It'll be like camping."

"Then sure, I mean—if you don't mind."

"Jules, it's fine." Can't help the smile he knows hurts his motives. Really just wants her safe. Knows how she gets after being hurt. How she was after being shot. Not just the physical rehabilitation, but the emotional turmoil. The nightmares. The avoidance. If he's around he can help.

The doctor clears her throat while weaving in another stitch. "I'm almost done here." Sentence complete, but the idea floats midair. The idea that they should scope out relationship problems and what to do next elsewhere when she's not around.

"You should go get Talia." Jules taps his forearm and points to the muted door. "I just want to hold her. If we're almost done—"

"No, of course. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Bounds out of the doorway and back into the hectic emergency room. Addled brain doesn't remember which way he came in and his sandaled feet do a single spin on the linoleum. Left looks promising. But then right has a lot of carts and forward seems like it might be the answer.

"Ms. Callaghan get her sutures yet?"

To his left, the nurse from before sits marking up a chart against the side of the avocado wall. Divots gouged out of it by gurney collisions and nervous nails. "They're just finishing up." He ambles towards her, away from the mainstream flow of personnel racing with gurneys and yelling jargon. "Where's the family room?"

"Down the hall and to the right." Points with the end of her pen to the right hall. Curly hair bundled at her face like winter wear. Nods a thank you but the moment he tries to leave, she beckons him back. "Her prescription is a heavy dose. Is there anyone she can stay with for the first week?"

"She's staying with me."

Smiles a little too intuitive. A little arrogant as she jots something down on the chart. "Go get 'em Tiger."

Doesn't know why he's rushing. They're almost half an hour early. Jules is relatively fine. Talia is fine. They're both safe and with him. They're all going to go home together for the first time since her birth and somehow pretend it's not awkward. Darting around people because he's nervous. Nervous because he's excited. Excited because for once he's completely relieved.

"Talia?" Calls her name from the glass double doors. The room is empty. Two couches scavenged at like a rotting carcass on the savannah by various families waiting in a swarm of anxiety to hear good news. Just praying for good news. Mounted TV distorted in rainbow waves as a reporter speaks in front of some building, muted.

The social worker stands beneath it. Clipboard still strapped to her chest like a bulletproof vest. Wants to tell her they do shit. Wants to tell her doors do shit, especially when left unlocked by stupid fucking paramedics who grew up on the welcoming bosom of the prairies. But he bites his tongue. Thinks Steve would've been educated by being a paramedic in Toronto, would've seen how people harm other people, by accident, by deficiency, for prosperity, for the sheer fun of it sometimes and that's what's scary. Steve's dead and he's mad because what happened to Jules could've been so much worse. It's horrible, makes him cringe and it's a mere teaspoon of what could have been inflicted on her. Doesn't even near the edge of his consciousness where he thinks of what could've happened if Talia was home.

His daughter stares at a painted mural on the wall. A bunch of jungle creatures with bright happy eyes parading by. Hunter and hunted hand-in-hand. Predator and prey happily celebrating something. A lion, a giraffe, a tiger, a gorilla. A snake weaving in at their feet. All in party hats. Talia stands before the elephant. Head hanging back, alternating between gaping at the painting and her own toy.

"Tally."

Perks her head to the side. Holds the elephant by the ear and it slaps against her leg as she bounds towards him. It's wearing his watch as a collar. With a smile she taps the face. "Daddy, you're early."

Groans as he lifts her up. It's almost nine and she hasn't had supper yet. Going to have to get Jules' pills, get settled in at the apartment. Pretend it's not going to be weird as fuck. "I thought you'd want to see Mommy."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Waves to the social worker, who is so idle, so bland, she blends into the final part of the mural. Falls between the couch cushions. Is buried under the constant string of ticker tape at the bottom of the news screen.

"Mommy's very—" searches for the proper word to explain it as he meshes with the traffic of the emergency room once again. All platelets in the same blood stream, exuding from Jules' cheek being sewn shut. "Sore right now."

"Why?"

Index finger presses into his chest. Half interested in the question, half in the bustle of the hospital. Eyes flicker back to his and then to a metal tray, then to his, then to a gurney. Disinterest brought about by overstimulation, hunger and sleep. "Well, um—okay you know when you fall and bruise your knee?"

"Yeah."

"Well that happened, but—to Mommy's face." Realizes the fault in his explanation. How is he supposed to explain to his five-year-old someone hit her mother? It's not something he was actually prepared for.

"Mommy fell on her face?"

"No. Just—Just be gentle." She puckers her lips and squints her eyes in confusion as he stops outside of the door. "Don't hug Mommy hard."

"Oh." Nods and taps his shoulder like she's in on the plan. "Okay."

Opened the door and remembers too late to warn Talia about the black eye. About the bruises. About the fat lip. That Jules is still her mother, despite looking a little different right now. In his mind, Talia would panic, cry until he removed her. Jules would be despondent over their daughter's reaction and somehow he'd have to stitch it back together.

"Hey Baby." Jules grins. Holds her arms open. Sutures are complete. Covert and sleeping under a piece of gauze. Dried blood from her chest and shoulder wiped clean and disposed of. Just puffy clumps of bruises.

"Mommy." Talia duplicates the gesture. Watch adorned elephant swinging, hitting the baseboard of the gurney. Injuries completely noticeable on Jules' face, but completely superfluous to their daughter. He sets her at the foot of the bed and she crawls towards Jules, ready to hug her, but stops short of falling into her arms. Instead taps her knee gently. "There. There."

He shakes his head, chuckling as Jules glances to him for elaboration. Her fingers running through Talia's ponytail. "I told her to be gentle with you."

Jules gasps and scoops Talia up as she claws at the gurney to scramble away. Folds her into her lap, holds her plump cheeks and litters kisses down the side of her face. "Never be afraid to hug Mommy." Talia giggles, catching her breathe and flips to fit against Jules' chest like she has since she was born.

Rediscovers his spot at the foot of the bed while Jules cradles their daughter's head, gently kisses her temple. He nods to her because they're going to have to tell Talia eventually. Sooner rather than later would be good. One day she might just ask where Steve went. "Baby, we have to talk." Angles her head back so she can speak directly to Talia. Their daughter's face immediately loses its joviality, drops into a reproduction of his stern serious grimace. "Something happened to Steve tonight."

"Is he hurt too? Did he have milk?"

"No. No, um—Steve got hurt really bad, Baby." Her bottom lip trembles as the weak restrain on the post medical dilemma emotions booms to the surface. She shakes her head as Talia glances on attentively, hands bracing herself on Jules' thighs. "He died."

He scoots down the bed allowing a few inches between Jules and himself. Finds his own voice too gentle to be real. Has been taught and perfected how to talk to half brained people with guns, people with hostages, strung out people, people powered by vengeance. Can't talk to his almost five-year-old. "Steve was with Mommy when a man hurt her."

Talia blinks harshly. Whips her head between him and Jules. Stares at Jules. The same ridged brows in investigation. Then turns back to him. Little chest pressuring away, flush and a sheen of sweat creeping over her skin. Jules wraps an arm around Talia's stomach, holds her back to her chest. Trying to relax her isn't working and when she finally speaks, her voice pitches, "Why would a man hurt Mommy?"

Inhales a shuddered breath to cover the own crack in his voice. In his heart. In his world. "Mommy and Daddy have told you about strangers." Vehemently nods her head. He talks to her about it every time he sees her. Since she could comprehend, she's known what to do. They've both taught her. Taught her the basics of fighting off someone she didn't know. Foot stomping, biting, kicking in the right place. Things that saved Jules life tonight. "Well he was a bad man."

Wrenches her body around to embrace Jules again. Holds on for dear life this time. Tiny arms grasping, head nuzzling at her chest. "I'm sorry Mommy."

Jules glances at him before touching the top of Talia's head. "Baby, you didn't—"

"It's all my fault. I opened the door."

Hand trails to her ponytail which she swings to cool their daughter off. "That didn't—"

"I don't want you to die." Talia keeps the same strength in her hug. Her head resting just under Jules' left breast, where an armor cracking bullet ripped through her body. Ironic because six years ago he was slumped over her in a hospital bed in the same position saying the exact same words. Tragic because he still feels the exact same way.

"I'm not dying." She sits their daughter up and wipes at her red swollen eyes with a thumb.

"I don't want Daddy to die."

"Daddy's not—"

"I don't want to die." Burrows her head back against Jules chest this time almost convulsing in sobs.

Jules rocks her gently, hand grazing her back as their daughter hyperventilates. "Talia, you're not going to die."

"Steve did."

"You're not." Jules caresses her cheeks softly, slowly. Cups a hand to her forehead to cool her down. Their daughter hiccups as she takes quieter inhalations.

"Well, some day."

"Jesus, Sam."

"You want to tell her she can live forever?"

"You want to try to defuse the situation a little, Braddock?" A little spark buried beneath the submissiveness instilled from medical drama.

"Tally, everyone dies." She lets out a rough sob and attempts to find solace with Jules once again, but he scoops up her scuttling body. "No, no. Come here."

"Everyone dies but there's a plan." Sits her in his lap, just like he did when she was a baby. One hand rubbing slow, dizzying circles into her back, the other consuming the front of her body, keeping it stationary. Tosses her hair off her back, lets her skin breathe. Feels the slowing of her inhalations. "See you've still got to go to school, high school, university, get a job—a safe one, get married, then have babies remember that, watch as they remake a lot of good movies into bad movies. You've got a lot more life in you. You've got nothing to be afraid of."

Releases the easy hold he had on her. Her skin retaining a state of normalcy, no layer of panic induced sweat, no blotches from crying, and no flushes from hyperventilating. Turns a weary head sideways, eyes half teared with concern. "What if it tries to get me before?"

Packs her back up in his arms, against his chest. Hand caresses the back of her head. "Well then it has to go through me first."

Jules raises an eyebrow at him, mouth drawn into a half smirk. "Nice speech."

Thought she might recognize it from the awful days after her first surgery, the brutal days after her second surgery. Her days in the hospital when her mood and self-esteem were more dangerous than her risk for post-op infection. The will to live, the love of life, the reason of being. Why she should even try. To walk, to sleep, to eat, to breathe. It scared him and it got to the point where he barely strayed from her side, from the hospital when she banished him. Just kept telling her she was worth it. She was his life and she needed to get better or he would get worse. "It helped you both, didn't it?"

* * *

Dishes land on the counter without so much as a clack. Glances over his shoulder at the muted TV flipping through the second half of a bright cartoon movie. The kitchen loiters in a humble darkness, but the living room bastes in the yellow glow of pot lights. The neon numbers imprinted on the microwave dictate that it's quarter past eleven. Hands gripping the counter he sighs.

Managed to get everyone home—well to his apartment. Had to stop off to get Jules' pain medication filled at a superstore. At that point she slumped in his front seat. Wilted to the door. Told her they would only be a few minutes. Told her to call him on his cell if anything happened, if she needed him, didn't feel safe. To honk the horn if anyone—she cut him off with a weary smile. Told him she would be fine, would come with them, but her outfit would be a wardrobe malfunction. It was half true; the cups of her red lace bra were exposed from within the peeled dress.

Dropped the prescription off and took Talia to get some pajamas. Jules didn't get a chance to grab anything before they took her to the hospital. They're allowed to grab some essential things from the house tomorrow like clothes. Doesn't know what she sleeps in now. When they were together, it was tank tops and pajama bottoms. Asked Talia and she yawned, "Pajamas."

Grabbed a black tank top in her size. Remembers her size from taking care of her, only he didn't factor in the six years and childbirth. Still fits, just a little snug, in the chest. Found the size of pajama pants she needed and Talia picked pink pajama hearts. Can't argue with a five-year-old on patterns for her mother. Jules won't either. The last thing they got was Smartie ice cream to replace the carton melted in his trunk.

After pizza and ice cream, Jules had a shower while he got Talia ready for bed in the half bath by her room. Helped her up on a stool to brush her teeth. Let her pick out purple shorted pajama bottoms with a white flowered t-shirt. She kept asking questions about Steve. Where he was now. If he was in heaven. Where they took him. How he got there. What would happen to his things. He started to get a pressure headache. Ice cream before bed wasn't a good idea.

Finished brushing her hair when Jules exited his bedroom. The only shower in the place is in the ensuite. Talia bounced to her, excited at the idea of a pajama party. Was a few months old when he stopped staying over nights. When she got old enough to separate from Jules for the night. Then the weekend. Would transfer a warm swaddled bundle into his arms at the door, and a diaper bag full of bottled breast milk.

They fell asleep on the couch trying to watch the movie. Finished with a few things in his bedroom and found Jules slanted sideways into the corner, Talia cradled in her lap. Reminded him of the only time she came to his apartment while pregnant. A sewage pipe burst in her house, though she had someone fixing it, she couldn't handle the smell.

Pushed by him in the doorway and threw up in his kitchen sink. Collapsed into the corner of his couch with heaving breathes. Arm thrown over her large, pale stomach, no longer contained in her tank top. "I threw up three times there." He stopped putting together the crib in the mess of a nursery. Started rubbing her stomach until she fell asleep. Until offended and battering Talia fell asleep.

"Alright." Hand nudges Talia away from Jules'. Slips his arms underneath her and scoops her to his chest. Her lashes finally open, fan and tickle the side of his neck. "Time for bed, Tally."

"I'm not tired," gurgles it into the fresh t-shirt he changed into. Hands falling limp at her side and mouth slightly open.

"Uh huh." Rubs her back as she snuggles into his chest. One heavy hand lifting to grasp his arm.

Subconsciously Jules notices the absence of heat and weight from her lap. The mother instinct kicks in and she shocks awake. Bolts from the arm of the couch into a sitting position and flinches her eye while trying to focus. He does what she prefers he do and pretends it never happened. "Here, say goodnight to Mommy."

Jules is finally adjusting to the light and her surroundings as he bends over with their daughter half hanging off of him. Talia's hand touches her jaw as she kisses her cheek. "Night Mommy."

"Night Baby." Jules grins, holds her for a second or two completely blissful. She drops a second kiss to Talia's temple and gathers her hair behind her back before he separates them.

"You should take your pills and go to bed." Nods towards the ajar door to the bedroom, the gaping mouth of gray hazed shadows. Talia hangs an arm around the front of his neck, her head lolling into the crook. "I changed the sheets and left a blanket and some socks out in case you get cold."

"Yeah." Massages her left temple as her eye disappears behind the solace of a pressuring lid. "Thank you."

"No problem." Observes her for a second more because something doesn't feel right. Well they've never all be together in the same house at the same time for this long, so it's a little unnerving. Especially since it's his apartment. But her response is programmed, empty. Obscuring of truth.

Pecks the Talia's forehead as he walks towards her bedroom. Light yellow walls in a kingdom of purple. Kept the paint from when he didn't know what was inside Jules and the color was gender friendly. But Talia picked all the purple. Curtains, bed sheets, a bookcase he painted, a bean bag chair, stencils of flowers on the wall. Just loves the color.

"Eventually she'll have to walk on her own, Sam." Jules voice echoes as she disappears into the darkness expelling from his bedroom. He almost rolls his eyes. It's a half assed attempt at a squabble. Talia's half asleep, he's carrying her to her bedroom and they're in his damn apartment. He'll do as he pleases.

Carries her everywhere because one time he set her down. Had a relapse of his pre-daughter, pre-Jules life and wanted to do something for himself for a change. Was tired of giving up every single one of his weekends to take care of Talia. He couldn't have a semblance of a social life on a weekday night after working an eight hour shift with possible overtime.

Talia was nine months old. Had sandy wisps of hair just long enough to reach the bottom of her ears. Had chubby little cheeks that appled when she stretched her plump lips into a grin. Had intuitive eyes that would watch him, from the car seat, from the couch, from behind a bottle.

The guys, who were just starting to treat him with a modicum of respect again, made fun of him because he hadn't been working out. Skipped the 5am workouts because Talia was just beginning to sleep through the night, which meant he could too. Didn't matter that she didn't live with him, he'd still randomly wake up to a phantom daughter crying.

With the gyms closed after he got off work, and really too exhausted to exercise, and the weekends spent with a baby, he might have gained a pound or two. The guys howled and asked who was the pregnant one, him or Jules.

Tried to do a few lesser exercises while Talia was down for a nap, but he only woke her up, and then he needed a nap. So he thought of the solution. Bought a playpen. A rectangle eyesore, made up like a little bamboo jail with a pad on the bottom. Shoved some of her toys in it, planned to set her in it and thought he'd be good for at least two hours.

But she saw the pen, and didn't want to go in. Pulled a grimace and clung onto the straps of his workout shirt. Pried little nails from around cotton and set her in frontwards as she hiccupped. He would be within eyesight, just on the other side of the room. Just wanted her to be far enough away that she would be safe and he could concentrate.

Immediately she crawled to the side and raised wobbly on her feet. Had been standing for the last few days. Jules took over forty pictures and showed him. He has twenty in his apartment and locker. Stuck a tiny hand through the bars for him and whimpered.

"Talia, I'm going to be right there." Pointed to the wall less than six feet away.

Turned his back to the pen and less than a second later heard a soft jingle against the floor. When he turned back, one of the toys he threw in there, she threw out. It rolled towards him and stopped at the end of the coffee table.

He groaned, picked up the jingling stuffed animal and marched back to the play pen. When he did, she stood up inside, her arms raised above her head expecting to be removed. Doesn't know if she did it on purpose or not, if she had the fortitude to compile a plan like that, but knowing her now, he thinks she did.

"Talia, no." He guided her hands down and watched her expectant face crack into another frown as she sniffled into tears. "I'm not going to hold you all the time. That's not the way this works. And if you throw this out again I'm keeping it."

Heard her crying and kept walking away from her. Something he would never do now. Wouldn't even think of doing now. Picked up hand weights and glanced back to her slumped forward against the side of the playpen. Her face splotched from crying, wet from tears. She stuck her hand through the bars reaching for him again and between one of her whimpers called, "Dada."

Dropped the weights to the floor, almost leapt over the coffee table and whisked her out of the playpen so fast she didn't get a chance to raise her arms. It wasn't her being difficult, or her being needy. It was her needing him and him being selfish. Sold the playpen for best offer that day and spent the rest of the night with her on his lap, listening to her say 'Dada'. Hasn't put her down since.

She starts to wake up, wiggling in his arms as he pulls back the blankets on her bed. Smoothes out the bottom sheet and plops her down so she bounces. She giggles, it's a game he invented to help her want to go to bed. Doesn't blame her, hears all of her nightmares. Nightmares Steve said they should contact a psychologist about. He left so he didn't hit Steve.

Covers her boney legs as she scoops up the elephant who's been waiting for her to come to bed since he got her ready almost an hour ago. Fixes the sheets around her chest when he notices the elephant still collared in his watch. Reaches out to retrieve it, but she snags the elephant from his path.

"Can I keep it for tonight?" Two arms crush the elephant to her chest. Cheek stretches and distorts from where it's pinned. "It makes me feel safe."

"Why don't you feel safe?" Perches on the edge of her bed. Feet under the covers almost press into his thigh. Eyes crash downwards, travel over the purple polka dots on her sheets. His hand stills one of her twitching feet under a dot.

"What if it gets me?"

"What if what gets you?"

"What got Steve."

"Oh Sweetie." Picks her up from under the covers like a fresh flower. Sits her in his lap sideways, like he used to when she was a baby. When she needed to be rocked to sleep, or burped. Used to hold her with a hand on her collarbone and pat her back. "We talked about this earlier. Everyone has a time, but yours isn't for a very long time."

"But Steve wasn't older than grandma or grandpa." Holds one of his hands in both of hers, keeps flipping it. Tracing it. Searching for the answer. Lips bump together and she glances up at him with a naïve blink. "So why did it get him?"

"Sometimes these things happen." Not just deaths but mistakes, overreactions, under reactions, spiteful words spat out of fear, one night of sex after ninety days of nothing and ending up with a baby but not a relationship. "There's a little burp in the plan."

"I don't want to be a burp." Doesn't sob it, more of a lament. A quiet whisper for something a thousand years in the past. An emotion she shouldn't even have experienced yet in her short life, let alone have control over. Pure misery.

"Hey. Hey." Lifts her up and she hangs like a marionette. Face slack in a frown and drooping eyes as she acknowledges him. "I would never let anything happen to you. You, you happen to be my favorite person."

Eyes roll up at him through thick lashes spread wide. One of her dangling arms touches her chest. "Me?"

"Yeah you." Bumps his nose against hers and she finally smiles. Wraps an arm around his neck. "Everything has to go through me before it can even see you."

"But what about Mommy?"

Helps her back underneath the covers. Scrawny little legs disappearing underneath a sea of polka dots. "She wouldn't let anything hurt you either."

"No, who's going to help her?"

Chuckles once, almost sarcastic, but she probably doesn't understand the implication. Pulls the sheet up around her chest. "Mommy doesn't need any help."

"What if she does?"

"She doe—"

"What if she does?" Interrupts him. Straightens from her reposed position. Elephant forgotten against the pillow. Hands planted in the mattress beside her waist. Eyes frightened, but stern.

"Then I'll watch out for her too. It's why I'll be on the couch. I'll be between both of you, to stop anything."

"Who will watch out for you?"

"While I'm watching out for you and Mommy, I'll keep my eye open for anything extra."

"But you'll get tired."

"That's why we need to sleep." Kisses her on the forehead. Thumb engulfing her cheek as he caresses it softly. "We can talk all about it tomorrow."

"Okay." Kisses his cheek, hand holding the opposite cheek in place. Not knowing that he'd ever move. Made that mistake once and it haunts him to this day. Has the same innate fear she holds about death when he thinks about what his life would be like if he stayed in Vancouver. Just never came back like he intended.

"Daddy." At the door she calls to him again. Eyes already half-lidded, elephant headlocked beside her. He stops just shy of flipping of the light. "If I get scared—"

"I'll be on the couch, if you get scared or have a nightmare; you come out and see me." Her answer is a group of indistinguishable syllables as he flips the switch and shuts her door without a sound.

Navigates through the darkened main room, city lights bleeding through the window. Decides not to turn any lights on in case Jules left the bedroom door open. Sees impeccably well in the dark, something handy for the army, for the SRU, for sniping. For fathering and waking up in the middle of the night to a three foot high silhouette in the shadows too scared to say something.

Dishes from the counter move into the sink without any clatter. Then he shuffles to the front door to check all the locks.

"You're really good with her."

Jolts at the raspy voice trying to elicit a conversation. His whole body, all of his muscles tense and he strains at least one. Thought he was good at seeing in the dark. Missed Jules sitting on the couch in plain sight. "You're a good dad."

Body adjusting from the extra surge of adrenaline pumping through him. He resets the chain lock, hiding his grin in case she's better at seeing in the dark than him. "Thanks. Would've been nice to know that when you were planning on taking her to Ottawa."

There's a brief pause of silence. Less than he expected for such a stinging remark. "I was never planning on taking her to Ottawa."

"Because that was made clear in the only conversation containing Ottawa we've ever had." Not true. After she got shot, on a trip home from a specialist, coming back from Ottawa to Toronto he got lost and she was complaining way too much. They got into a huge argument, and instead of prolonging the fight, they fucked in the backseat of his SUV. Condom from his wallet, heated by the sun, heated by his own anger and arousal broke. They've had plenty of conversations concerning Ottawa.

"I told Steve after you left that I didn't want to go. He said we'd talk about it later." Eyes fully adjusted to the weak city illumination, he witnesses her mash at her temple, rest her forehead against the back of the couch. Not really listening to her anymore because he remembers what happened. Doesn't know how he forgot. The overwhelming love, the need to protect and be with his daughter made him lash out when she wasn't trying to attack him.

"He proposed to me tonight, you know."

Now he's listening to her again. Hand stuck in the freezer, rooting around for an icepack to stick to the side of her face. The one all puffy raspberries.

"Got up in front of the whole fucking room of people accepted his award, his promotion and proposed to me."

Sighs. Feels the hot air from his throat turn into solid wisps in the freezer. Feels the ice tingle up his arm as it loses sensation. Doesn't know how to respond. Never knows what to say.

"I had to tell him no in front of all those people. I took a cab home. He came home and we had a real argument. One where he didn't just tell me to calm down and leave."

Discovers an icepack on the door. Bought three when he took Talia skating last winter and she went down like a sack of bricks on the ice. Hit her knee and her elbow. Scooped her up and rushed her to the side of the rink to discover black bruises at the points of impact. Bought her all the hot chocolate she would drink, wrapped her up on the couch and taped an icepack to each joint.

"I told him I wanted to end it."

Shuts the door and walks to the empty end of the couch. Words directed to her knees, decorated by pink hearts chosen by their daughter. Picked hearts because 'Mommy needs love'.

"That I've wanted to end it for a while."

Holds out the pack for her to take but she either ignores his offer, or doesn't notice it. Arms lightly embrace her angled legs; hug them to her chest as she stares at the hearts. Can only tell by the glint of glassiness in her eyes.

"Bastard left the door unlocked."

Sneaks his fingers between one of her tightly wound hands, transfers the pack into it. "Jules, what happened isn't your fault."

"I'm not saying it is." Cushions her face against the icepack and for a few seconds her healthy eye disappears, closes from the soothing temperature. "But I didn't make his final moments too pleasant."

"I'm sorry about earlier, about yelling. It would've been a lot easier if you'd just told me you were never going to Ottawa. Hell, in hindsight, it would've been easier if you didn't date him at all." Means for it to be a joke. Trying to build bridges with her, because they're in a very delicate place. She's been through a trauma; he'd like to remain someone she can rely on. Neither of them have ever been good at making connections. Acquaintances, friends, romances. They only ever had each other and when that broke, it broke.

"In hindsight it would've been a hell of a lot easier if you didn't say you stopped loving me the moment you found out I was pregnant. Then just come back and pretend you never said it at all." Forgets his jokes usually inadvertently birth arguments. Become competitions of who can hurt the other the most.

He's done. He's done hurting her. Fucked it up six years ago by not being adult enough. By wanting to live more, then realizing he didn't really have a life until he met her. Until she gave him the greatest thing he'll ever receive. Didn't realize how patient she was with him, even while he was tending to her bullet wound. While he was supporting her as much as she would allow while pregnant. "I said I was sorry."

"And I said your apology means shit."

Exhales sharply through his nose. Not because he's angry, but because she has every right to still harbor anger. She came to him, nervous, anxious, the smallest portion of a smile possible on her face and told him she was pregnant. Without waiting a second he told her he couldn't do it. That he couldn't be committed just yet. Couldn't be a father. That their relationship wasn't what she thought it was. He told her everything he knew wasn't true. "I was scared."

"And I wasn't?" Arm grows weary of holding the icepack to her eye and it slips slowly from her hand, hits her thigh before tumbling to the ground. "I was pregnant, just getting over being shot, not reinstated back to my job yet, and my boyfriend abandons me like a teenager because he's not ready?"

"It was only for a month."

"It was for six weeks."

"I needed time to think."

"And what did you think about Sam?"

"How much I missed you. How much I fucked this up." Can't look at her because she'll wear the same expression. The same mixture of hurt, of regret. Like meeting him, being with him was the worst choice of her life. Stoops forward and snatches the pack off the ground. Flops it in his open palm once. Stares down at the alien writing on it in the blue light. "I wanted to come back after the first day and I couldn't because I disappointed you. I couldn't face that."

"It just proved that what we had. What we felt. It wasn't real. The greatest gift two people who love each other can share is a child. And when I told you about yours, you ran."

He's done. Not willing to give into past emotions. Will acknowledge them. Be held responsible for them. But will not repeat them. Will not walk away from her. Can't. Can't lose her again. Shifts forward. Right hand tender in its movements as it pillows the pack back against the side of her face. "But I'm not running now."

"No." Laughs ruefully. Closes her eyes against the cold placating the bruises and scratches. Part of him thinks the brief moment of serenity is brought by his touch, his closeness. The lingering of his skin above hers. Part of him knows it is. "Which is amazing for Talia. But it doesn't mean anything for us."

Left hand masks her unmarred cheek. Steadies her face as he leans forward and captures her lips. Doesn't really know what he's doing. But it's the opposite of what his instincts are telling him. Suggest he bow out, let her know she's won the argument, that he's sorry he's an asshole and he'll spend the rest of his life knowing it.

Instead he feels her full lips, the top right bruised fatter, pulsating against his. The softness of her skin that's haunted him for six years. The wisps of hair, wet from her shower, tickling at the back of his hand. Her perfume, her aroma stalking underneath the dominant smell of his own shampoo and soap, but it's still there. Could pick it out of a crowd.

Her body constructs itself, rebuilds itself with stronger layers as she raises on bended knees. Hand shooting to his bicep for stability as she arches forward. An arm flings around his neck, elbow angle awkward and cool skinned. His hand drifts over her cheek, follows the smooth cords along her neck as his tongue plummets into her mouth. The icepack tumbles from protecting her eyes as he cradles her head. Fingers finally playing in silken threads of hair.

Sways closer to him, a cobra ready to strike, knees edging against his thigh as she rakes fingers through his hair. Lets them shiver down his neck and stand infinitesimal hairs on end. Tugs on the bottom of his shirt, slips a cold hand inside to sedate his fiery skin. Slithering over his stomach, to rest on his side.

Wants to drag her closer, her body level in height because of her stance. Kiss every inch of exposed skin. Every inch hidden away. But things like this, they don't just happen. They could happen before because there were no responsibilities. If they got hurt, it was only them. They were adults and could handle it with relative maturity and a six year grudge.

But now there's Talia. There's Talia who if this doesn't work out is even more fucked than she was before. There's the corpse of Steve which isn't even on ice yet. There's the mountain eroding on the side of Jules face and how having glorious, mindboggling, deliriously good sex isn't exactly a proper way for her to channel the shock, rage, and adrenaline in the hindsight of the attack.

"Wait," muffled by her tongue, her lips smothering him and he's stopping it. Wants to shoot himself because he's fucking stopping it. "Wait. Wait."

Grips her gently by the shoulders and keeps her a solid two inches from his face. Hears her raspy breaths, the exhalations float humid to his skin and he shivers when he's on fire. Licks his lips and tastes the past, present and future. Closes his eyes and feels the dejection coming, feels the rejection from within himself. "We shouldn't do this."

Gracefully folds back down into a sitting position, legs tucking neatly under her. "What—"

The list of excuses flows from his mouth like water from a tap. All the reasons why they can't be together. 'We're on the same team' finally isn't an issue, but their problems have swollen to planetary in size. "Talia's going to get the wrong idea. You need to take it easy and Ste—"

"Sam, if you don't want to do this, it's because you don't want to do this." Copies his stance. Slouches, arms draping over her knees. She never changes her attention from him. Not once. A glare in a room without light.

He doesn't answer because his brain clogs with questions. What does she want from this? Why is she doing this? Does she want him like he wants her? How long has she wanted him for? Why did they play games for six years? What are the repercussions? What about the endless perks? Why did it take six years? How natural her body feels to him, the movement, the scent, the taste. Six goddamn years.

With a combination of a sigh and a scoff, she shakes her head. Twists of hair tangle and swing as her hands brace against the edge of the couch to push herself up. Takes his mutism as a stark rejection. Guesses concrete actions work the best on her, because every time he's ever tried to verbally explain himself, she just gets pissed off.

Grabs her, the same cheek, fingers leaking onto her neck. Spare hand swallows the curve of her hip as he rips her towards him. Devours her lips, pulling on them like a strong undertow. Like magnetism, or whatever keeps bringing them back together. A soft gasp heaps in the back of her throat because he's clotting it, controlling it. Tongue demanding, dominating.

Runs his mouth from hers, across the clear portion of her face. Over her jaw line and swooping under her chin as he lifts her a few inches to border his body. Her thighs frame his as his lips fall to her neck traveling in slow, suctioning kisses. Hears his lips smack against her skin, hand slipping into the pajama pants to hold her ass, to push her into him.

She grinds down, hips rolling, breasts bobbing. Tongue twists around in the hollow of her neck. Lowers her back on the couch. Her hands yank at his t-shirt, first to get his attention, then to tear over his head. It plops to the coffee table demolishing an empty pop can which clatters to the carpet.

He's leaning half off the couch, one leg on the floor propping him up and the opposite knee between her legs. The soft flutter of her lips on his neck, his shoulder, his chest as he situates himself. Hand slides up her cotton covered stomach to knead one of her breasts as he sets hungry lips back at her chest.

A hand runs over his bare back, only encouraging his actions and his head falls to her cleavage, tongue lapping at tantalizing skin as his hand brings her nipple to strain against her shirt. She rocks up into him, nurses the swelling in his sweatpants. His hand shifts from the small of her back, to her hips intent to steady them. But the moment, the feeling, everything overwhelms him.

Mouth clamps over her opposite breast, still covered by her tight tank top. Aches to taste her, all of her, as his fingers glide inside of her panties. She tries to gasp a warning, a demand to slow down or something, but it's choked. Frees her breast over the collar of her shirt and he tastes her skin untainted. Tongue flicks over her budding nipple, mouth sucks and laps. Hand still entertaining her other breast, fully clothed.

Fingers dip deeper. Discover her more aroused than he expected. Answers the question of if she wanted him. Thighs jolt on the first stroke, and she gasps out a guttural response. Muscles tense from actions intended to loosen her up. Inhales shaky as he releases her breast and brings his mouth back to hers. Slows his movements to match the preset rhyme of her hips, she wraps an arm around his neck and trembles a sigh in a hint of pleasure.

As the frequency of her hip rocking increases, the brushes of his fingers do. Longer, deeper, fall in circles. Free hand splays over her stomach. Feels the compress and contract of the muscles as tension undulates through. Feels the steady rise of her breathing, swift exhales in huffs.

Their eyes connect amid the frantic gyrating and rotation of their bodies. The friction and thumping noises melt away for a second and something clicks between them. Like a gear wasn't quiet in place, or a bone wasn't quiet set. She nods. Swallows, smiles and nods. Arm anchors around his neck, sinks his head towards hers and she kisses him as he dives a finger inside of her.

Jules' history is complicated, tarnished and sullied by bad men. With certain things, with certain acts, he has to be careful not to trod in the same footprints bad men left on her soul so many years ago. Learned it, after their first time, knew something was awry and amazingly got a jittery straight answer the next day. The book of Jules, pages crusted and crumpled together pouring out of her mouth, like his reasons they shouldn't, until empty of self-imposed shame, she collapsed and he helped her stand up.

The full force of her grind, the tightness of her body courses against his hand. The tops of her soft thighs cushion, and with every shift her slightly wet panties tap at the back of his hand. With every shift, he rubs her a different way. She ripples against him, single bare breast streaking his chest as his second finger dips in. Her mouth is hot, only exhalations, and he sucks her lower lip into his mouth.

Tightness grows within her as her rocking increases, as his inner and outer strokes increase. Angles his head to lap at her breast. Too enticing to ever deny while his fingers breach and submerge. Tongue flicks at her nipple when she clenches, stops her bucking, but he keeps his dexterous digits flowing. She gasps again. More guttural, longer and louder than before. Than he ever remembers. For the sake of the ramshackle balance of their broken family, he abandons her breast and drowns her mouth in his.

Constriction wanes from her body, arms oil hinge from around his neck and back. Her torso falls slack in his arm as he withdraws his fingers from her. Hand grazing her panties, the pajama bottoms, cool air prickles his fingers dry as her mouth kisses his earlobe. Always played with his ears, flicked them to get his attention, rubbed them to calm him down, sucked on them turn him on.

Knows this and her hand already strangles his waistband, elastic but knotted in place. Wants to tell her he's fine. Something along the line of 'she doesn't have to' without sounding so Lifetime movie. She's still hurt, still in an abnormal place with everything occurring in one night. Wanted to help her relax, which happened. She did the same for him once, in a shower after a long shift. Never asked for it, never told her what was wrong, but it was her way of settling him down when ear massaging didn't work.

Hand tears through the trenches of his waistband and clasps him before he can utter a word. Holds him with soft strength, fingers curling around him, remembering perfectly just as he did moments ago. Strokes him slowly once. Once is enough to make him jump in her hand. To push him from maybe into yes. A hand snakes behind her, cups her ass as he lifts her up with him. Only word he manages is, "Bedroom."

Legs hook around his hips as she twists teasingly. Hand retreats from his pants, enthralling pressure immediately fades. Instead pinches at the waist of his pants to hold them in place. Band snapped during her indication or his response. Other hand glides into the shorter hair on the base of his skull. Fingers drag like feathers caught on a current. Mouth forms against his ear while footpads slap against cold hardwood floors. Kisses softly before flicking her tongue out.

Darts into the night shrouded bedroom. Blue moonlight from the row of square windows behind his bed adds an ethereal glow, blanches wrinkles on the sheets. Fishes blindly behind him for the door handle. Both of her hands consume his face as her mouth encloses his. The familiarity of it, her lips and tongue and taste. Her breast compressing against his chest, the strength of her thighs. Supports her with one hand on a black cotton tank top, then underneath it. The curve of her spine, individual columns set tight beneath her skin.

Shuts the door with relative silence but when he strides forward his pants end up boneless at his feet. It's a shrugging situation because he would've shucked them in a few minutes anyway. Steps out of them and inadvertently kicks them into the smoldering shadows creeping at the baseboards. Finally hits the corner of the bed with his knee and falls forward, her tumbling beneath.

Finds the hem of her tank top, hands slip underneath to smooth skin on her stomach which shudders at his sudden intrusion. Tickles over ribs and higher until she pulls up the bottom of her shirt, he deserts the underside of her breast to help guide the material over the side of her face. She tosses the balled fabric over his head while he dips to lap at her breasts. Tongue and lips dabbing with just the slightest intent at soft, pillowing skin.

Kisses until he rediscovers where an embered scar still burns. The pain of it relived in the single second of his pause. Kisses the skin, but without heat. Without necessity or eagerness or hunger. Just three soft pecks, head slightly sideways so his nose nuzzles the underside of her breast. The muscle, the rib bone, all reconstructed. Body rebuilt itself because she wanted to give up, he wouldn't let her and eventually, together, they made a recovery happen. Three months later when he was driving her home from a specialist in Ottawa she accused him of only wanting to be needed, he accused her of being incapable of needing anyone and at a pit stop on the 400 series, they made a baby.

Forehead rests against her, falls in the hollow above her navel. Breathes against her skin and in return breathes in her skin. Scent more aromatic than before. Rolls his head, supported by unseen, dangerously strong muscles. He lifts his neck, finds her propped on her elbows. Shakes his head at her. "Jules."

"Come here." Beckons him with a comprehending, stretched smile. Holds her arms open to him as she shoves up into a sitting position.

He has to ignore everything. The way her hair has fallen loose and is framing her face in frantic strands. The shift of her breasts. The inner curve of her torso. The way her pajama bottoms and panties have snuck almost to the top of her thighs in a work of art. Instead he climbs up and embraces her, knees digging into the mattress in the negative space between her splayed legs. Fuses her to him as he holds her. Just holds her.

Until one of her hands flutters to the band of his boxers. Pries back the elastic and slips stealth inside before his body reacts with a jump and a twitch. Jerks away from her hug, but her hand clasps around him with the same perfect technique as before.

"Jules—"

"Shh." Drags his face back to hers, lips laying a gentle persuasion over his. Her hand is so slow to begin anything, to jumpstart his incapable body. "Do you remember that one time you came home angry?"

"What does—"

"Just answer."

"Yes." Her hand slides down the length of him, torturous in speed but complete in style. Exhales hard for a second before her mouth covers his. Tongue licking at his lips, her lips plucking his skin.

"You wouldn't tell me what was wrong." Another arduous stroke as she uses her spare hand to guide his boxers to his knees. "You just pushed past me and went to the shower."

"I'm—" Another stroke from base to tip. And another. Thumb flicking once. "Sorry?"

"So I went in that shower with you." Faster now, almost successive in nature. Breasts start to jiggle from the movement of her arm. Has him getting harder.

"You shouldn't have," exhales it as her thumb rubs over his tip once, then twice.

"Like I didn't know what you did in there, Braddock. You took longer than me." No stop to the strokes as they evolve to pumps. Sweat starts to bead on the back of his neck as his heart beats faster.

"I meant." Reaches forward and cups one of her breasts because the bouncing is hypnotic. Trays it in his hand as her fisting movements screws slightly. "Shower was dirty. I was dirty. You—you could've— got—"

"You changed my bandage and cleaned my stitches after we got out. I was fine." Pressure building within her hand and with an animalistic urge he starts bucking his hips in time to her pumps. "You needed to relax and since we couldn't have sex it was the only way—"

Hand shoots to her wrist, binds it stable. "You need to stop if you want—"

"If you want."

Fingers curl into the side of her panties as he thrusts forward, forcing her to lay back. Hips wiggle as he yanks off her remaining clothes and tosses them to the opposite side of the bed. Head dives to taste the skin of her navel, her thighs. Works flawless skin into his mouth, darkening it a shade with his desire in his travels. Stays clear of her inner thighs as it was frequently a no fly zone for his mouth. Too many tainted memories from bad men.

When he tries to lean forward, her hand slams into his chest like a baseball bat. A little heavy breathed she whispers, "condom."

"Right." Boxers get tangled at his knees and after he fights with them for a few seconds he whips them somewhere across the room. Stumbles to his bedside table, in the back of the top drawer of there is a box in which are condoms so a rummaging daughter will hopefully never find them.

Tears the corner of the packet, pinches out the end of the condom and rolls it down to his base with a shudder left over from the phantom tactility of her hand. Climbs back on the bed, lips sucking their way up her body, hips, stomach, breasts, neck, until they regroup with her lips. She doesn't shove him off when he leans over her, hand massaging her thigh gently as he coaxes her legs wider.

Eyes shift to each other for a single second for any last objection and without one, he guides himself into her. Pushes full until he feels the déjà vu of their hips luring each other. Like he experienced it once before in a dream, or maybe is experiencing it now in a dream. Immediate warmth, immediate enclosure and immediate placation.

Hands root into the mattress at her sides as he conducts the flow. Sets the tepid undulation of his hips against hers as he bumps down. Keeps it gentle for the first few beats while adjusting. While gauging her already half masticated reaction. Shifts his hips when he feels her body tense in a negative way.

Her arms loop his neck as he buries his face in the side of hers. Nips and sucks at the soft skin. Her hair starts to stick to the thin layer of sweat on his face. At his back, her splayed fingers crumple into fists. Feels the air from her exhaled gasp dry his skin, moist from the dancing of her lips.

Hip snaps increase until the rhythmic slap of skin on skin echoes through the room. Lips trip up the side of her jawbone, to her cheek as she grows tight around him. Muscles tensing in a good way, arms locking around his neck again as her returns of his bumps lag. Then come to a complete stop as she gasps, his mouth sharing in her expressed pleasure. She ripples around him, hips bounce twice, stomach and thigh muscles twitch until she lolls.

Keeps the rhythm through her ride. Keeps the bumps, pace not slow and sultry like he'd intended. Catches on to his predicament quickly, and her hips buck into his, smack and crash like thunder. Body is closer to her, being pulled down by gravity. His arms weaken and her breasts bump his chest. Her mouth kisses him heavily, spinning, until he's gasping for air. Then moves to suck on his ear.

Arms wobble, strength flooding out of them as her body coaxes his, bumps with his. Her hips flick to the side beneath his, then roll in a tantalizing circle. His lips suckle at her collarbone to hush the guttural noises compiling in his throat. She chuckles, hand surfing through his sweat soaked hair as she taps kisses to his temple and his cheek. Keeps the rotation of her hips slow until she suddenly snaps them upwards. The action births the right friction. Finishes him though he keeps the grind of his hips to hers, now idled to accept him. The clash of flesh on flesh diminishes like a fleeting rainstorm.

Attempts to settle softly, but his arms collapse. Shaky, overworked, tired, strained, complete in euphoria as her fingers slip through the damp skin on the back of his neck. Both their chests heavy, his stunting hers, forcing restrained air as it restricts hers down. Her thumb massages gently into the muscles on his left bicep, the harsh pinch and cool release. His lips suck at the skin on her left breast. Taste the saltiness of her perspiration. Feel the supple skin tighten and dimple from his attraction.

"Sam." Fingers rub behind his ear as he's greedy with her body. The touch is soft, invoking control. His mouth abandons her blushing breast as he angles upwards with two elbows digging into the mattress. Hand still caressing the back of his head, with a weak voice she enlightens, "I'm tired."

The heavy moonlight flowing river free highlights random aspects of her body. Areas where his shadow hasn't swallowed her whole. Left breast glistening from sweat or saliva with a firm nipple. Left side of her neck lying on a bed of her hair, whorling out to the opposite pillow. The right side of her face, demolished, puffy, shaded even when haloed in light.

"I'm sorry." Kisses the side of her neck, feels the breeze of her fingers against his cheek. Gently draws on the scabbing gash sliced in her upper lip before withdrawing.

"It's not—"

Pushes back up onto a hand and carefully guides himself out of her. The condom stays in place; unbroken and he thinks they both sigh. Slides it free and ties it off. Disguises it in at least ten tissues from the side table and reminds himself to take the garbage out in the morning.

Her hand caresses the small of his back, in smooth, gentle licks. Ignores it, the emotions rotting away in his gut and heart dying to be satiated. Instead fills her hands with a prescription and a bottle of water. She furrows her eyebrows at him as he stands. Hands burrow through the covers to free them from underneath her. Floats the sheets to her hips as she sits up. "You should take your pills."

Hand clamps over the lid and her face skews as she thrusts her weight into the cap, trying to force it open. "What are—what—"

Offers an empty hand to her, which the bottle tumbles in. Tiny pills ticking away like time. The palm of his hand pressures against the lid grooves and it pops free. "I have to take care of—" nods to the wad of tissues on the nightstand as he hands the bottle back. "Just go to sleep."

Doesn't look at her again because he can't. The draw between them, whatever it is, magnetism or chemistry or the slew of other scientific terms to explain things that have no scientific relevance. Their attraction to each other has such strength that it acts as a sedative to him. It calms him down in moments of extreme fury. He craves it like addicts do with any other drug. The downside is everyone else becomes second to Jules, and he can't risk putting Talia into a lesser role. Tiny hands strangling for him, crying out 'Dada'.

Knows Jules is watching him, with the water to her mouth as he paces to the ensuite and shuts the door a little too frantically. Would give up almost everything to lie down beside Jules and fall asleep like it was six years ago. Like he never left and didn't fuck things up. There wasn't a time when he didn't love her. He never stopped loving her. He doesn't think there was a moment in his life where he didn't love her. Not when she wanted to remain separate entities after Talia was born, not when she brought Steve home and into their lives, not when she instilled the idea of moving to Ottawa. It's all talk, all for show.

Tosses the clump of tissues into the trash can. He'll change it in the morning. Flips the toilet seat up and pisses. He kissed her. He made the move on her. Every time that's how it's been, but she's been receptive every time. She wants him to stay, but what does that mean? Is it because of what happened to her earlier? Or because she wants what he wants.

Isn't this all he's ever wanted? Shakes and flushes the toilet. Ambles to the sink and washes his hands. Him together with Jules and their daughter. It would be the best for all of them. They already work opposite shifts on different teams. Wouldn't be replacing Steve, because Steve was just his replacement.

The problem would be if they tried. If they really tried to be a family and it didn't work out. Doesn't know why, maybe a second condom broke and another Callaghan-Braddock was created to be ferried around Toronto on the weekends. He'd be left to explain to Talia what happened, why it happened. The rekindling and snuffing out of their romance has consequences besides accident babies. They have to remember how it affects Talia, how seeing her parents together automatically generates a false hope within her.

Creeps across the bedroom, starts sifting through the pieces of discarded clothing on the ground for his boxers and his sweats. The bed squeaks as Jules drifts up, eyes hooded on the threshold of sleep. She blinks heavily and stifles a yawn while gathering the sheets at her torso. Breasts bare, and perfect, and puckered, and marked by his mouth. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going back to the couch." Finds her tank top. Then the legs of his sweats sticking out from underneath the corner of bed.

"You don't have to." Hoops her arms around her angled legs, lays her chin against her knees creating mountains under the sheets. Her breasts flatten to her thighs.

"Talia shouldn't see us together." Yanks his pants on, waistband loose around his hips as he abandons the need to find his boxers. Stares at her, because she's gorgeous. Lips a ruby red he wants to kisses until sleep claims him. Skin smooth, pristine, soft and curvy. Wants nothing more than to crawl back into his bed, mold his body to hers and pretend they've always been this way. "She might get the wrong idea if she sees—"

"What idea would—" Sighs into one of her hands. Aggravated and body compact. But the anger fades away with a simple expression. One they both share. Nervous and unsure, a weak smile. "Look, I don't know where this is going either. You've alwa—I mean I—we can talk about it tomorrow." The moonlight powders her disheveled hair ethereal and fairytale flawless. Tucks a bang behind her ear and finds the nerve to catch his gaze again. "But I really need you tonight; you always make me feel safe."

A lifetime has run its course in the last six hours. Keeps forgetting the trauma, deep seeded in her emotions, in her actions. Coming to fruition on the side of her face. Over her lips which are as full and fanciful as he remembers, undisturbed by the malicious intentions of others.

He makes her feel safe. He makes her feel safe. Creates a haven for her. A part of him wonders why. If it's because he can be the dominant in the miniscule lapse when she can't. He can tell a doctor to stitch up her face. Tell the surgeons to take a growth from their daughter's lungs. When he loves something, the love is integrated. Wired into the goods and bads. The healthys and sicks.

The majority doesn't bother with that, because it's an open invite to ensure her safety, ward off the nightmares when they come and they will. To hold her close even if it's just for tonight. "Of course."

"We don't have to touch or—"

"Jules, it's okay." Tank top wringing in his hand he approaches the bed with less zeal, more care. Free hand on his waistband which he's sure she broke in her fervor.

"I'll sleep better if you're here."

"So will I." Sinks on the edge of the bed. Air conditioning spits at his exposed back, picks at his skin. Rolls the sides of her top to a complete ring and reaches towards her.

"What's this for?"

Guides the shirt over her head, closed eye and paused conversations. Adjusts the snug cotton over her breasts, hands flitting, then tugging it to her stomach. Frees her hair, watches it cascade down her back. "She's going to come in here eventually, whether it's in five minutes, or in the morning. We should have clothes on."

"Yeah." He crawls under the covers as she bends over her side of the bed. In the blue moonlight he glimpses her hip, the top of her right thigh. A glowing crescent. Has to restrain himself not to reach out and give the alluring skin one more touch, one more grasp, one more caress, one more kiss, one more taste.

She shimmies into his boxers, the first thing she grabbed, and fixes back on the pillow. Arms ridged at her side, legs straight arrows in an attempt not to touch him. He wanted to leave her tonight, three times. It was so if this didn't—doesn't work out he won't have to explain to Talia why. Won't have to break her little heart. His hand shoots out and snags her hip, feels the comforting curve under the thin fabric of his boxers. Drags her back towards his side of the bed. She chuckles, spins towards him, nose an inch from his on the same shared pillow. "Thank you."

He pecks her lips one last time as she anchors his hand to her hip. Shifts her back and adjusts her position. Half her face in ruins. His heart skitters because things could've been so different. Could've been planning her funeral. Could've been finding her extreme psychiatric care. Instead she's warm against him, because he created warmth with her. "You never have to thank me."

* * *

Eyes inch open to a room swallowed in the gray light of dawn. Still predominantly dark, he differentiates a few more details than in blindness he waded through before. There's tranquility spread in the motionlessness behind her eye. Not wrenched shut, or flinching in pain. The tip of her nose compresses against his collarbone. Warm breath layers over his bare skin in even patterns. Right side of her face tipped upwards as she slumbers next to him.

Only roused once during the night. Stiffened completely beside him, then jerked back and straight awake. Eye wild as it scanned the dark room, breathes hissing from her like a leak. He turned the bedside lamp on. Watched half her features soften as she recognized him, the room, the situation. Brushed a hand through her hair, held the back of her head as she sighed against him. Left the light on for her as she stumbled to the washroom, then back. As he flicked it off, she nestled as close as she could get to him. Put his arms around her.

Collects her hair behind her ear, off the contused portion of her face. Discolored skin bloating and plunging around the gash in her eyelid. Top lip dipping, cut visible on the periphery. Her arms pin to her chest, two slack fists connecting their bodies. Without any indication of being awake, she shifts, shoulders rolling, back stretching, and sighs. He bows his head to her shoulder, tepid in the stagnant cool air of the morning. Places a kiss on the bare blade, smears it with his thumb. Savors her aroma, petals from her garden, mangos from her smoothies. Fragrances he glimpsed six years ago, was denied and now might reacquaint with. The suppleness of her skin, softer than the sheets.

"Daddy?" The faintest whisper gasps from behind him. Hushed in tone. The friction of his legs under the covers drowns it. Untangles his arms from around Jules, still dozing uninterrupted by the dulcet question. Worms away from her. Rotates, to face the edge of the bed, the end table, the alarm clock, and the tiny silhouetted form. Luminescent watch face glowing against her skin as an elephant hangs at her legs. "Daddy?"

"Mr. Tally Man." Greets her with a gruff voice. Throat thick with unheeded sleep. Hangs an arm out to touch her, but she springs backwards leaving air to sift through his fingers. Replays her defiance from the hospital. Supports himself on a forearm, fingers from his empty hand twist in the air conditioning. Swipes his knuckles over his eyes to dissolve the remnants of the drying, agitating hours "What's the matter?"

"I had a bad dream." Strangles the elephant to her chest. Her rapid breathes thumps the stuffed toy and clatter his watch. Hides her face behind the felt and elaborate stitches of an ear flap. Peeps gunked together lashes thick with pre-shed tears and deep sleep out at him. "We were there and there were snakes. And then you left. You and Mommy left. You left me there to get eaten."

"Tally." Stretches his arms again, but she's hesitant. When scorned she adopts Jules' attitude. Holds a grudge for hours, days, weeks, or almost six years. "Sweetie, that was just a bad dream. Daddy would never leave you anywhere."

"But." Face draws into the same expression of hurt, of thought as her hand muzzles the elephant's head. "I went to the couch and you weren't there. You said and you weren't." Points at him and the bed, then wipes underneath a puffy eye irritated by tears with an elephant ear. "You both left."

"No Sweetie, Daddy—" Didn't really think up an alibi with Jules. About what to tell their daughter about their sleeping arrangements. Why they were huddled so close in such a large bed. Why she could suddenly stand to be around him. Why she's wearing his boxers. "Daddy had a bad dream. He got scared, so Mommy let him sleep with her."

Examines him with a slant to her head. Lips pouting as she tries to validate his story. But her arms loosen, feet shuffle closer. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

She sniffles, wiping at her face again. Voice tremorous, "What about?"

"Snakes." Doesn't wait in his answer or his action. Groans a little as he leans out of the bed expertly balancing his body. Hands hook underneath her arms and he creates an arc with her in the air, her bare toes wiggling.

"Really?" Plops her into his lap on top of the covers. Tussles her bangs as his hand consumes her forehead. Once she came into his room because she had a bad dream. Had a fever of almost a hundred and three. That was a scary night. A dangerous night. She needs to drink more milk.

"Yeah. They're creepy right?" Her skin is near frozen. Must've been standing in the dawn haze for at least fifteen minutes afraid to wake him or Jules up. Doesn't know why. He's never yelled at her. Never would. Knows Jules never would. Can only do the sensible thing and blame Steve.

"They don't have hands." Bundles her up to his chest. Pads of her feet stamping like icy cookie cutters into his warm flesh.

One must en pointe to Jules' praying arms because she jolts right out of her synthetic slumber. From a pill induced sleep to a half roused stance, without even fluttering a lid between transition. Left arm crooks underneath her. Sits like a doorstop to keep her body from tumbling. Hand drives for the damaged side of her face and he catches it by the wrist, floats it in stasis.

Hair musses around her face, bangs divide oil in water. Observes from behind a single slit. "What's wrong?"

"I had a bad dream." Cold cheek compressing against his bare shoulder. Arms compact and folded against her body copying Jules' position only moments ago.

"Aww, Baby." Frees her hand from his slight restraint and brings it to the bottom of their daughter's foot. Fingers enfolding over her icy toes to warm them up. "About what?"

"Snakes."

"Because they don't have hands?" Their daughter nods as Jules caresses her hair. He stares as much as he can through the semidarkness to impart his disbelief. Without her limited gaze moving from Talia's pouting face, she clarifies, "It's a reoccurring one."

Her hips shift back under the covers. Blankets drift lower, lap just below her breasts still stressing against pulled cotton. There's a current of cold air from her absence and a groove radiating body heat from her lapse. She pats the mattress, piles wrinkles on wrinkles. "Do you want to sleep here?"

Talia looks at the vacant spot, then at Jules, then at him like it's some sort of trap. Like as soon as her frozen little foot hits the fitted sheet a spring will click and snap her in half. "It's okay?"

"It's always been okay." A smile glows on her face through the darkness. Knows she doesn't mind. There's times where he's picked up Talia, or Jules dropped her off and explained about the nightmares, how she spent all night with their daughter. Now he gets Steve exiled Talia from their bed. Steve should've been exiled from the bed.

Half sliding off his chest and already into the spot, she stops. Tilts her head up, with big worried filled eyes begins to get his permission. "Is it—"

He smacks kisses loudly to one of her appling cheeks, then the other, then to her forehead. Was abandoned in a dream. Didn't feel safe and came to them to request safety. No child, especially his daughter should ever have to ask to feel safe. She giggles and grasps his cheeks, and their noses touch in a ritual as old as her.

Helps her topple into the spot and while Jules covers her with the blankets, he rescues the elephant, forgotten on the ground along with heart patterned pajama bottoms. It stands a sentinel, protects them all with a glowing watch face from periphery where the pillows meet the backboard.

Jules curls up next to her, kisses her forehead once and sighs in the embrace before settling back onto a pillow. He lies on the opposite side, closest to the door making sure that no snakes and no druggies get into the room. Holds her tiny hands in his and feels the random ticks become less frequent, more sluggish.

After a few moments of silence, of lack of movement, Jules brings two fingers to her lips. She kisses the tips, and reaches over to lay them to his cheek. Closes his eyes at her touch, her hand melting over his face. Everyone he loves, safe and protected. Cups it to his cheek to imprint the experience before pressing his own lips to the back of her hand.

"Did Daddy tell you what I wanted for my birthday?"

"Not now Talia."

"You're not at work."


End file.
